


i was born (the restless child)

by KeyDog (BannedBloodOranges)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Adolescence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Child to Adult, Conquering Vulcans, Darker Characterisations, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Morality, Dubious Relationships, F/F, F/M, Growing Up, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Minor Kirk/Uhura, More characters/relationships to come, Not Kirk/Uhura/Scotty/Leonard tho, Possible McSpirk, Rebellion, Rebels, Slow Burn, Surak's teachings are more "guidelines" than actual rules, Vulcan Mind Melds, enslavement, lack of empathy, rating due to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 10:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/KeyDog
Summary: "What is your name?""Jim Kirk," One day, his name is going to be a threat, a warning, and so he states it as such."I am Sarek, of Vulcan." Jim has heard that name. He knows it. It's a threat all of its own, but he won't flee. He'll stand like his father, even as his ankles itch to feel the ground. The hand reaches for his shoulder. "And of today, Jim Kirk of earth, you will have a different name."On a conquered earth,  James T. Kirk is stolen from his family farm at the tender age of nine, never again to see his family or the rebellion they tried to inspire. Assigned a new name and a new life to go with it, his refusal to conform leads to a turnabout of events that not only alter his destiny but the lives of those around him.





	1. Ek-zer

**Author's Note:**

> Non-profit fun only.
> 
> Ek-zer = Gem  
V'hak = Elegy (Song)  
Falor = Merchant.

_See, I was born the second child_  
_ With a spirit running wild, running free_  
_ And they saw trouble in my eyes_  
_ They were quick to recognize the devil in me_

  
_ See, I was born a restless child_  
_ And I could hear the world outside calling me_  
_ And heaven knows how hard I tried_  
_ But the devil whispered lies I believed_

  
_ Can you hear it hanging on the wind?_  
_ Can you feel it underneath your skin?_  
_ You've got to go on, further than you've ever gone_  
_ You've got to run far from all you've ever known_  
_ You've got to run far from all you've ever known_

** _ Second Child, Restless Child - _ ** The Oh Hellos

* * *

Iowa County is an old land, full of new things. Jim is new. He's just turned nine and his mother says she loves the way he smells, all fresh and new and salty baby skin, like their newly calved lambs. It's husky summer and so hot his skin sweats through his clothes so everything is damp and scratchy and the sun chafes him red across his cheeks and arms. The farm is alive in the rustle of the dry grass, the creak as the wind chases the sparrows from the shed, the choir of the animals. 

The sounds are different now since his Ma told him to run. A light flared from the cornflower sky and she'd thrown him out the backdoor and said run, run, ** _ run. _ **

The sounds of his farm are louder and uneven and through the cracks in the old barn, he sees the ship descend upon the flat green plains of their farm. The animals scatter, hoofbeats kicking up the dust. Sam has run one way, he the next. 

The sun shines off the chrome oval of the ship and the light becomes alien too. The doors slide open and robed men spill out, long-eared and high browed. 

The land and sky is a drowning horizon to the sunshine wrapped around George Kirk's body, making the grass and house and shining yards of wheat glow. He speaks; they answer. His mother is there and they let her plead. There is a shot of lightning and his father crumbles inward. Another, and Mama falls, chickens scattering and shrieking. His father rises; swings for the leader. Another strike of light and this time his father does not get up.

Everything in him wants to run, to cross that ground and batter the men with his tiny fists, to hurt them. In his head, he's bigger than the starships he reads about in his creased, beaten books.

He crouches in the barn instead, too shocked to even cry.

* * *

The hay scratches up his cheeks. A fine legged Harvestman walks serenely over his hair. 

A robe sweeps along the dust. Through the cracks of yellow, he sees high purple boots halt in front of his hiding place. A long hand eases in amongst the hay pile and shifts it away.

He thinks to bite at the finger, but some part of him (which sounds like Mama) says it would be stupid. He doesn't cower as the being straightens at the sight of him, dirty gold hair and caramel eyes, staring up straight and unblinking.

"Please let go of my parents," he says, quickly. The figure is draped in heavy burgundies and blacks and isn't he too warm for this weather? He has bristled eyebrows like the local Pastor, hands like the statue of Christ extending out in sacrament. "You can take me if you want. But don't hurt them."

"Your father has deferred for too long to his human egotism, and therefore, has strained our patience beyond reason." His voice is like ice water, sting shock as it hits you. He peers down, pitiless. "You are not useful to us."

"You don't get to say who's useful!" Jim snaps. 

"Do I not?"

"Yes!"

"I am the most powerful person here, on your primal Earth. Therefore, logic dictates that I have the last word."

Jim glares at him, balls his little fists. The man looks down at him. His face twitches, just a bit, and Jim doesn't understand.

"What is your name?"

"Jim Kirk," One day, his name is going to be a threat, a warning, and so he states it as such.

"I am Sarek, of Vulcan." Jim has heard that name. He knows it. It's a threat all of its own, but he won't flee. He'll stand like his father, even as his ankles itch to feel the ground. The hand reaches for his shoulder. "And of today, Jim Kirk of earth, you will have a different name."

* * *

He won't see the old land again. 

The blankets are rough beneath his head, scratching along his scalp. He's in his torn jeans and his old striped t-shirt with strawberry juice staining the white, with hay stuck in his hair. The container is high enough for him to walk around, and there's a bed one side, a toilet the other, and food waiting on a small mat in the centre.

It's the perfect size to hunker down and bitterly cry. 

He lets himself, for a little while, to "get it all out" as Mama would say. 

He wipes his nose with his fist, smears snot and tears across his cheeks. It runs into his mouth and tastes disgusting; like he can flavour his sadness.

The doors open with a sharp, stilted _ fwip _ and a woman enters, thin and tight like a cat's cradle. Jim sniffles and tucks his knees under his chin. She murmurs something to his door in a language of strange music and passes over the threshold. She's like the men, but older, and just as hard.

"Greetings, Ek'zer." She holds up her hand in a funny salute. "I have prepared breakfast for you. First, you must be washed and clothed before you can take nourishment. Now come."

"That's not my name," Jim says. He scrambles to his feet. She peers down at him; a dirty farm boy with a tongue in his head, as his teachers would shriek."It's Jim. James, if you want all of it. James Kirk."

It's a good name. He likes it. 

She doesn't.

"Your name is Ek'zer." She declares, cold. She turns on her heel."Come along."

He walks after her, careful not to trip on her cloak. It looks so heavy and uncomfortable and he hopes he doesn't have to wear that, it would weigh him down. He has to scope the place out, after all, if he's going to escape. She turns suddenly, her arms outstretched, and Jim baulks, expecting a strange, pseudo hug. But she grasps at him, not gentle, and brusquely pulls his shirt up over his head.

"Hey!" Jim blows the hay out of his hair. "We've not been introduced yet, Miss!"

It's what his grandda would say to the pretty nurses with twinkly laughs. But he can't imagine this Matron with a chuckle in her throat.

Stripped, she pushes him quickly into a tiny chamber. Soap stings his eyes, making him cry and scrub at his lashes. Hot water rips each grain of dirt from his skin, each lash an erasure of hay, or sunflower seeds, of mud dry blasted in the Iowa sun. A shock of hot air dries him down to the tongue in his mouth as he's tumbled out, naked and pink, into the robes of the elder woman, who shoves a beige tunic over his head. It itches around the neck and dangles over his knees. He wants to scratch it off his skin.

She snaps gloves on her spidery fingers and reluctantly taking his shoulder, directs him down another corridor. He's stumbled into a room with children his age, all miserably scrubbed in beige smocks, sat on benches lined down a long table. A male Vulcan, elderly and high handed, observes each and every one of them with a rub of his bristled chin. Jim hates him immediately.

"Ek-zer," The Matron pushes him forward. "Seat yourself, please."

Throwing a glare over his shoulder, Jim takes his place next to a pale boy with dirty brown hair. Freckles scatter across his snubbed nose and he smells of art class in school, the fruity chemical of wedge colour pens mixed with drying paint. His nails are stained with ink; he's trying to hide one hand inside his smock. His other is wrapped tightly in the hand of a little black girl with her hair curled in bunches. Unlike the other children, she watches him from the corners of her bright eyes. Her face is puffy from crying but she returns his smile. The stubby boy scoots closer to her, throwing a wary look at Jim.

The Matron rings a tiny bell. The children sit up obediently, save Jim and his two new friends.

Starting at the rear of the table, she asks each kid their name. Jim frowns; none of the answers the kids give seem _real_. They sound like the bogus name he's been given, and they falter how to say it right, forcing tongue between their teeth, slurring odd vowels like his drunken uncle. With each reply, she nods to the elderly Vulcan, who places a bowl and spoon in front of each child. Jim itches in his throat and hands. 

They reach the girl.

"What is your name?" She asks.

"Nyota," She pipes up. "That's my name."

"Hm." She makes no response and turns to the boy with the dirty fingernails. No bowl is laid in her place. "What is your name?"

"Monty," The boy's accent is thick. "Me name is Monty Scott, ye pointy-eared ol' tart."

A few children muffle laughter beneath their hands. The majority look scared; some just stare down at their bowls, unmoving.

The Matron glances at Jim.

"What is your name?"

"Jim Kirk," He says proudly, and Monty beams at him, all scowling forgotten. "And don't you forget it, lady!"

* * *

Jim had half of a squashed toffee bar and a stick of gum in his jean pocket, but his clothes are gone. He'd ask the Matron next time he saw her, but a part of him doesn't want to give her the satisfaction. Nyota and Monty have been led away from the other children who'd eaten the boiled, salty greens in their plain ceramic bowls. All three of them were left with rumbling stomachs.

The Matron couldn't bring herself to touch them, to prise them apart, her gloves hovering over their stubborn little hands.

_ It's like they think we have germs. _ Jim kicks his legs in his grey little cell. _ I wish I did. I'd make them all sick. _

He's hungry and he wants to go home. The fact he is so hungry makes him angry. He's supposed to be strong and special, to "abstain" as Dad said. He's supposed to _ survive. _

"Where am I?" The Matron enters to change his sheets. There's water but no food. They'd even removed the dry fruit and nuts that had been on the mat when he'd first woken up. "Why am I here?"

She pays him no mind.

"Hey!" Jim springs off the floor. He grabs her heavy robes with his sticky hands. "Answer me!"

She smoothes out his bed with her gloved hands. Jim tugs harder; she ignores him further. Using all his strength, he yanks and the robe tears in a great, ugly sound. He topples back, the room rocking over and over and pain splits the back of his head in an opening of black.

* * *

_ Beep. _

He's so heavy. 

_ Beep. _

There's a shuffling of touch over his forehead. It's his Mama, isn't it, feeling for his temperature. He sniffles and moves into her hand and breathes in her scent of baking and daisies, and instead finds the dry chemical smell of soap.

He opens his eyes.

The elderly Vulcan is hovering over him, his finger on his temple and his thumb on his cheek. His eyes are closed, his lips moving soft and slow, as pieces click and shift in Jim's head like a jigsaw.

He does not know what is going on but this is _bad _very very bad there's a man in his head a monster _get out get out get out -!!! _

He bites at the fingers of the older man, whose eyes open like two black blots of ink and they're dead and empty and Jim_ howls. _

The hand is pulled away. Jim struggles; restraints eat into his arms, leaving flat angry welts and he screams and screams and screams because how dare they, _ how dare they...! _

The elder's voice drones like a wasp in a language Jim fiercely does not understand. Shapes move about him in blurs, all blue and white and there's a faint, insistent beeping -

Hands reach for his face. He delivers each with a snarl and swat like the feral cats that roam in the buckwheat fields behind his house. He draws blood, green, like the big, ugly bugs Sam would swat with a stick outback until Jim made him stop. 

They're not gentle. A hypospray prods into his neck, releasing a slick, slow pressure into his skin and he hates that, hates how droopy and helpless he feels and...!

He cries for his mother. He just rails against the restraints, the composed faced monsters who observe him like an insect. 

Mom, Mom, _Mommy -!_

* * *

Long white beds lie side by side, folds of plastic draped over them like shrouds. 

Monty is asleep, scrubbed so hard he's tart pink. All the ink and dirt is gone, and he's lost his stink of cheap felt pens. 

Nyota is awake. Her girlish bunches are gone; her hair curls around her soft, tiny ears. She hums under her breath, rocking back on her heels, and greets him with a smile. 

"Hi," She says. She has a clear voice, strong but gentle. Like an actress at his community theatre, who could speak high and low and still be heard across a town hall. "Are you okay, Jim?"

She says his _name_, and it sounds good. 

Jim perks up and ignores the dull ache in his head.

"I'm okay," he jabs his chest with his thumb. "It's gonna take me more than that to bother me."

It is both the truth and a bluff.

"They keep trying," She nods. "But we need to keep remembering. They want us to forget. But I won't." She cocks her chin, proud. "Me and Monty have made a promise, to remember each other's names. Even if they make us forget our own, we can know each other's."

"That's romantic," Jim teases.

She raises her eyebrows.

"We're just friends," she pushes back, but there's a hidden cleft in her smile as she twizzles her hair around her finger. She pauses for a moment, then adds; "Do you want to be in our promise?"

Jim bounces up.

"Yes!" He nods. "You are Nyota Uhura and he is Monty Scott, and I promise I will never forget it, ever ever."

"And you are..." She creases her brow as she thinks. "...Jim Kirk."

"Ah!" He points up his finger, like how his Dad used to when he was trying to impress Ma. "You _ remembered." _

"Who be rememberin'?" The dark scruff of Monty's hair sticks up. He rubs at his face, yawning, but his eyes are big and dry and Jim smiles. Yes, he likes these kids. He likes them _a lot_. Monty jumps off his bed, bouncing down beside Nyota (and once again, stealing her hand.) "What's yer name again? Jaden? Jake...?"

Jim pokes out his lower lip.

_ "Jim." _

Monty shrugs.

"Yeah, I know. Keep yer hair on." He glances at Nyota. "Ye can be my friend, but she's my girlfriend, so hands off, kay?"

"Monty!" Nyota shoves him, but her eyes are all starry. "We're just friends."

"Aye, just wait a bit." He sticks out his hand. "Might as well make it official. I'm Monty Scott, but ye can call me Scotty. Everyone does."

By everyone, by now, he must have meant him and Nyota. 

"Pleasure," Jim drawls like he's royalty. Nyota giggles and rolls her eyes. "I am James Tiberius Kirk."

"Tiberius? Blimey," Scotty shakes his head. "Bit of a mouthful, ain't it?"

"Tell that to my Grandpa."

"Your Grandad's name, eh?" The boy winks with both eyes. "Poor bastard."

"My Grandad liked his name," Jim pouts playfully before he thinks; Grandad. Nana. Mom, Pa. Sam.

He never thought his name could feel so heavy. The weight of it sinks him back into bed. Nyota shuffles up next to him and drops her head on his shoulder. 

"Aye." Scotty shakes his head like an old man. "I'm sorry. It's been rough on all of us." He fishes around in his pocket, swears, than tries the other one, finally pulling out a tube of Smarties. "Hold out your hands, fellow travellers. I've got food."

Pouring them out on the bed, he splits the candy into thirds. The neon coloured sweets shine on the artic sheets, food colouring rubbing off onto the white.

Jim's stomach rumbles. He sniffs and wipes his nose with his hand. Nyota reveals dusty fruit and nuts from her pockets, the same that was left on the mat. It isn't a feast, but it takes the sour bite of crying out of Jim's mouth and god, the candy, shots of sugar, make him close his eyes in bliss, toast his tongue blue and green and pink.

"So..." Scotty hugs his knees. Now the names are out of the way, the sweets shared, they all become quiet, as if aware of where they are for the first time. They can't wave goodbye and invite each other for tea, or promise to meet again the next morning in the shade of a tree or the paint peeled brilliance of a playground. "What did your parents do?"

"My parents didn't do anything!" Jim exclaims through a mouthful of candy. He sees their soft faces and falters. "They're innocent, I don't know why..."

"My Pops ran a protest," Scotty cuts in. "Drew dirty cartoons of important Vulcans or something like that. They didn't like it, and came one day, and took me away." He bites his lip. "I have three older sisters, I do. Ma isn't around. It was like havin' three Mas."

Jim crunches his smarties.

"Did..." He sighs. "...they take your Pa away too?"

"Yep." Scotty nods. "I'm going to get out of here, and I'm going to find him, and my sisters." He scrunches up his face. "Even I don't..." He sits on the other side of Nyota and takes her spare hand, slipping her his last smartie. "..._we're_ getting out of here."

"My parents were very smart," Nyota tugs at her ugly skirt. "Mama taught at University and Baba wrote for important people. He was trying to..." She recites as if from a memory she has heard many a time. "...say that Vulcan rule was wrong, that it was hurting us, making us weak, not able to make our own choices." She glances at the two boys. "They came in the night. I don't know where they took my parents."

"But why..." Jim takes a gulp of water from the sideboard canteen. The sweets make his gum pang, tingle his teeth. "...why did they take us?"

"The older kids say it's for reeducation," Scotty says glumly. "So we don't get naughty ideas from our parents."

"But we're just kids!"

"Kids grow up, Jim," Ny says gently. "They know that, and that's why they're scared of us."

"But why take our names?"

"I dunno." Scotty shrugs. "Some weird kind of mind thingy, if ye ask me. Although, it could be an improvement if me middle name was Tiberius."

A pillow is snatched up. Monty ducks; Nyota gets a face full of it instead. Jim scrambles off his sheets, trying to apologise before Ny is laughing, lovely little girl giggles, and she skunks the pillow back at him.

"Some boyfriend you are!" Jim trills, spinning on his heels. "Yer let your lady take a bullet for you!"

"It was an accident, me love!" Scotty calls, falling "romantically" across Nyota's lap. "Punish me, punish me!"

"Scotty, you're so weird!" She plunges the pillow on his face. He splutters, rises, laughing. 

With a sly glance at Jim, he tiptoes his hand to another cushion.

They fall about on each other, shrieking, the seams splitting, synthetic feathers smattering like snow. Jim's chest hurts from his laughter, a pleasant and breathless burn.

A chill prickles their skin. 

Stood silent and watching is the elderly Vulcan, alongside a stream of figures in white and blue.

Nyota takes Jim's hand, then Scotty's. The three of them sitting together, feathers in their hair, the last ache of laughter dying on their faces.

The elderly Vulcan's hand hovers over his tricorder. Jim has the nasty feeling he finds them interesting.

"Return to your beds." The Matron approaches with her dull fury. "Ek'zer, V'hak, Falor."

"Who's that?" Nyota shakes her head. "I don't know who that is. Do you, Jim?"

"Nah, I don't," Jim squeezes her hand back. "How about you, Mr Scott?"

"Nope." Scotty shakes his head. "I don't know anyone called that, Jim, Nyota."

"This puerile display is most disappointing." She puts her hands behind her back. The overhead lights gleam sterile on her black gloves. "Such behaviour will not go unpunished. I trust you choose your next actions carefully."

"Bullshit!" Jim's yell snaps off the grey walls. The orderlies begin to mutter amongst themselves. "You stole us from our families! You take away our names and parents and you can threaten us with how to behave? You've behaved like monsters!"

The Matron watches him carefully.

"You are very articulate, Ek'zer." She says. "You have a formidable mind. When you are reeducated, you will be most useful to us." She pauses, then adds; "Your parents were corruptible influences. We have removed you from their harmful reach. As of now, you are subjects of Vulcan." She tilts her hard chin. "You will be taught to act like one."

"But we're not Vulcans!" cries Nyota. "We're human, and we want to go home."

"Negative. This is your home now, V'hak. When the time comes, you shall be placed with a family. As of now, I already have your settlement in mind. You will learn to serve, and listen, and learn, and with time, will come to respect and acknowledge what we do here."

"Bloody hell," Scotty jokes, darkly. "That's more words you've said to us then I think I've ever heard."

"Excessive noise is discouraged." She takes a step forward. The children huddle, heads together, hands clasped tight. "And yet you act frightened. I can only discern that your fear is a logical reaction to an unknown situation. The correct way to cure such anxiety is through familiarity." She sniffs. "Although, you shall not be proceeding together. As of now, the three of you shall be separated until you learn to respect. As you see..." She snaps her fingers. "... the choice of company is a privilege."

"Basic human freedoms aren't privileges, they're rights," growls Nyota. Jim blinks at her; his heart leaps a little.

"We are not human," says the Matron, and the orderlies advance.


	2. Tahluk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are other humans on the ship.

Lessons commence in classrooms so hot children pass out over their textbooks. When Nyota begs them to turn down the heat, they merely answer with "it is a necessity for the human children to grow accustomed to high temperatures."

Scotty scathingly asks why.

They reply with "that information is not permittable at this time."

They learn basic words, the first of which are "serve" and "please" and "thank you." Everything is extra big and spoken extra slow. They must stand up, sweaty and shaky and recite everything in unison, and write down their names between stenciled lines. Jim covers his booklet in his name - James Tiberius Kirk - and even scratches it on the desk until the Matron discovers him. 

Nyota's handwriting is like the pretty copperplate his Grandma used to put in her Christmas cards. She writes more fluently than the rest of them. He doesn't know the meaning of what she writes, only that the Matron sucks in breath whilst looking over her shoulder, and instructs her to "halt her intrusive attempts at weak, human humour" and to "use her evident talents for self-improvement."

Monty passes him notes and pulls faces behind the teacher's back. He scrawls equations all over his books and draws huge, complex machines that could have come from Sam's bright comic books. They treat him like an idiot until he aces all his mechanical tests and that is when they whisper and take notes behind the smooth polished black of their PaDDs.

The Matron discovers them in the recreation room, huddled together. Typically, she picks out an imperfection that Jim didn't even think to mention.

"You have injured yourself." She hovers above the three of them. Squeaking a glove over her hand, for heaven forbid she has to touch them, she points at Scotty's right hand. "How did this happen?"

"Oh, aye," Scotty answers lazily. "Kept givin' me old Pops the bird, so he bit it off."

"The truth, Falor."

Scotty watches her warily. Leaning back on his chair, he curls his fingers into a fist and presents her with the back of his hand, the tiny stump of his missing middle finger raised.

"The Isolation Cube," she points to the door. "Four hours. Now."

* * *

When they are with the other children, Jim, Nyota and Scotty are forced to sit apart. They are given the minimum to eat, as they still answer with their names until they are weak and tired and irritable until their names became a snap, a verbal slap back at the long, boring faces.

Jim almost wants to give in. If he remembers his name, then that's enough, right? If he keeps it to himself; if he doesn't forget, then maybe he can say the bogus name and get fed, and have it all.

But he knows it doesn't work like that. He doesn't know quite why, but some deep concreted part of him is insistent if he bends only a little, then it'll break, then everything will get easier, easier, easier until he's mumbling silly names over weak bowls of sour greens.

One morning, he almost does. His head is hung on his chest and he hasn't seen Ny and Scotty for ages, and his legs are weak and shaking as he lines up for yet another boring lesson he has to pretend to understand with the inside of his head banging like cymbals.

He doesn't even hear the ruckus in front of him, the slip up of a child on the floor and high hysterical crying and the disappointed burr of a teacher and the hurrying feet matched with the slow, careful plod of the Vulcan.

A cold, broth soaked slab of bread is pressed into his palm. He looks up and sees the chorus of children, watching him with intent, murmuring _quick _and _before they see _and _come on. _

That dinnertime, he answers as strong as ever.

Nyota and Scotty smile into their empty bowls.

* * *

Scotty's continuing stunts - acing tests, pulling faces, singing loud drinking songs - means he is banned from the "recreation" time, and therefore leaves Nyota restless. There is nothing Jim can find in the recreation room to comfort her or any of them. Big interactive PaDDs stuck into the walls, safely vetted programs to not rouse "excitable thought" and "unnecessarily intrusive behaviour." They might as well be better playing with toilet paper. At least with that, you can make a mess.

He tells Nyota just as much if only to see her laugh, and she manages to smile, even if her empty hands keep opening and closing as if imagining a hand that isn't there.

Jim aces all the games and tests in his first try and picks the rubber from the corner of the PaDD screens. 

He finds a pack of old cards and starts to assemble them into a castle, frustration building in his legs and stomach and chest, clawing up into his throat before he hears a high, honeyed note.

Nyota's singing voice is warm and sweet like summertime and she sits amongst the bland books and games and sings old love songs in English and Swahili until the air thrums with it. The other children still, leave their books and papers and begin to close in, entranced. Noticing her growing audience, Nyota sways and skips with the lilt and jump of her voice, beckoning Jim with a smile. 

The children cheer, but Jim can't hear them, only Nyota's voice. He watches the way she pulls back her hair away from her face, her lashes dipping onto her dimpled cheeks. 

But then he sees the Vulcans, and how their touch pens scratch harder and harder until Jim wonders if they're complying entire libraries on their hard little screens. 

Jim, Scotty, Nyota. His _friends _are no better than the fat, sad hamster that had belonged to his neighbour until Jim had saved it and built the huge, multileveled cage for Hamish to run free in.

"What are you writing?" Jim's question punctures the air in the space between where Nyota can draw breath. She shouldn't have to perform for these bastards. "Are you gonna tell us our test results or...?"

The elderly Vulcan's stylus hovers over his PaDD. The long, dark heads look up in perfect synchrony. 

"Ek-zer," The young man who addresses Jim stands head and shoulders above the others. As far as Jim is concerned, he looks like a cucumber with ears. "Return to your leisure time."

"And ignore my question?"

"Your question is irrelevant."

"To say it is irrelevant is just a fancy way of saying you don't want to answer it."

"I have no preference in the matter." The young Vulcan retorts. "I am not capable of that. As far as I can deduce, you are merely being obstructive."

Jim puts on his "smartass" voice.

"To deduce that I am being obstructive implies the preference that you find me annoying, and you want me to shut up." 

"That is not possible..."

"Prove me wrong," Jim says, cold. 

Cucumber lowers his PaDD. 

"The Isolation Cube, Ek-zer," he says, and Jim pretends not to feel the break in his chest at Nyota's tight draw of breath, and the silence thereafter.

* * *

"The Isolation Cube" is as exciting as it sounds, four bare walls and a cold floor, no seat or bed or even a mat. Jim spends so much time in it he even boasts the fact he never had two bedrooms at home.

It is in his so-called "second bedroom" when he sees the first adult human in weeks.

A man with chestnut hair and skin, in simple robes and barefoot. When Jim is in the Isolation Cube, he is the one who delivers him his meals, who does not respond to any questions, and stares dull-eyed through him. He wears a necklace that Jim thinks its more like a dog collar, like the fancy ones rich city girls put on their chihuahuas. It's brass and crusted with green stones that glint lightly in the dark, and Jim can see the underside is cushioned in green silk. 

Jim eats the meals he brings because the man does not ask his name. The soup is weak and green and tastes horrible, but he can stomach the hard, sweet fruits and the cobnuts. 

"What's your name?" He asks one morning. This is his seventh time in the Cube, and he considers it a charm.

"Taluhk," He lies a napkin over Jim's knees. At least here, Jim has proper meals.

"What does that mean?"

"What does it matter?" He says flatly. He seems so colourless, human in the skin only. Jim has a mental image of him as nothing but robe and collar, but then, Jim has a funny idea. Maybe everything treats him as uninteresting, so he becomes uninteresting as a result.

"Please?" He says it for the first time, a refresher on his tongue. "I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."

The man looks up at him. 

"It means..." He gathers up Jim's things. "...precious. Cherished." He turns away. "It means many things."

Jim frowns.

"Was that the name they gave you?"

"It was not the first name they gave me." 

"What was your first name?"

"I am forbidden to say."

"Okay." Jim picked at his food. "You speak Vulcan?"

"Fluently."

"What does Ek-zer mean?"

The man looks at him. 

"You won't like it."

Jim crosses his arms.

"How do you know?"

"I know quite a bit about you." His lips keen, a little. "You have made an impression."

"Really?" Jim stands up. "How?"

"You know how." Taluhk turns away. "I have other duties to perform. As is stands..." He steps through the barrier. "...your name means gem."

Jim closes his mouth, tight.

Taluhk is right.

He doesn't like it.

* * *

For his "influences" (aka record time in the Isolation Cube) Jim is stolen from the bleak dormitories with the narrow bunks lain up side by side like coffins. His room is a broom cupboard with a high slit for a window. If he closes his eyes and squeezes his knees, he can pretend he's in the dusty black of his downstairs cupboard, and he and Sam are playing hide and seek for Halloween and he'll open his eyes and Sam will find him and they will chase each other down to the kitchen to steal Ma's cookies shaped like ghosts and cats with shrieked tails and -

The door to his tiny bedroom creaks open.

Through the tiny side window, starlight stands out the curl of Nyota's hair. She dips in beside him, cuddled swiftly against the mirrored drum of their hearts.

"How did you get in here?" Jim whispers, pushing aside the covers to touch her, to feel her warm and human and something that actually cares, speaks, crinkles their eyes when they smile. 

"There are humans here," Nyota's returning whisper is excited and urgent and tickles inside his ear. "You don't see them much, but they work for the Vulcans. They don't want us to see them, not yet."

"But..." Jim sits up, excited. "You've befriended one of them!"

"Her name is Ch'aal," Nyota arranges the sheets. She's careful not to brush their knees together; the buzz of her skin is confusing but fascinating at the same time.

"That's not her real name!"

"No," Nyota shakes her head. "She can't remember her birth name, or so she says. I think they made her forget it. I've been taken away from class to meet her mistress."

Two elderly female Vulcans in gold glided robes had been interrupting their classes to retrieve Nyota, or as they had said in their cold voices, "we require V'hak for further instruction." The last time she'd returned, her wild hair had been fixed in a Vulcan swirl, and she'd kept pawing at her neck as if she had an itch. Her legs had been violently shaking and Scotty's big brown eyes had been huge in his head and Jim had touched her face, to see if she flinched, if any fingers had left pressure marks on her. She'd only looked at him quizzically and tried to lick at his fingers, making them all fall apart laughing, Scotty had laughed harder than them all. (In retaliation, Scotty had taken apart a Vulcan clock and put it together as a human radio and blasted Nirvana until the windows shook. He'd been suspended from all activities, but the elderly Vulcan had still taken notes.)

"They get you to sing, right?"

"Yes. I tried telling them I was interested in mechanics, radio waves, communications, and that I could wire Baba's old communicator and "make it sing." That's what he used to say." She explains, proud. "I and Scotty are going to build our own radio station, you see, when we get out of here, and I'll sing the latest hits, and he'll do the tech stuff and we'll take turns with the wires and communicators..." She holds herself, suddenly, her tone failing. She pulls at her smock and glances at the door. "But they just make me sing, and speak Vulcan poetry."

Nyota is the top of the class in Vulcanian and she doesn't even have to try. Jim wonders if her smart Ma taught it to her before she was taken. She can even catch snippets of conversation and translate it for the other kids, and even make it ruder and sillier to get the younger ones to laugh. 

"Do you know why?"

"I think so," she shuffles closer. Jim puts an arm around her. They're trying so hard to be adults, both of them, but all they want to do is hunker down and sniffle like kids. Jim's brain hurts with all the pulls in it, trying to reach beyond what he wants to do and what is the best thing to do and there are no real answers to anything and that hurts most of all. "They're pairing us off, you see. Trying to find who we're best for. I think each kid is given to a Vulcan. They say I'm going to a girl called T'pring. She's the language teacher's daughter. I've seen a picture of her and everything."

Jim scowls.

"I bet she's ugly."

"No!" She slaps his arm. It's playful and doesn't hurt a bit. "She's pretty, with all this hair and jewellery. But she looks so sad. They all do."

"Pretty, srmetty," Jim scoffs. He gazes at her and adds; "I bet she's not a patch on you, Nyota. No-one is as pretty as you."

Nyota closes her mouth. Her eyes are big and worried and Jim just wants to hold her hand forever.

"Jim..." She whispers. She glances quickly at the door again. "...can I show you my secret?"

"What kind of secret?"

She grins, cheeky, propping herself up on her haunches, and peels back the hem of her smock. A pair of jade hoop earrings, clasps poked discreetly through the seam, wink prettily in the starlight.

"They're Mama's," Nyota explains. She unclasps one and holds it to her ear. "I hid them."

There is human hissing from the door. She springs off the bed. The mattress is empty, cool, without the heat of her legs.

"I have to go," she kisses his cheek. The sensation roots in Jim's skin and drives blood to his face. "I'll see you soon, Jim."

Nyota, the girl with the jade hoops knitted into her smock, is gone. Jim lies on his side and curls into the warmth of where she was, mere moments ago.

* * *

The weeks spiral into months. Acting out is exhausting, and who knew it could be so tiresome to be consistently naughty? Typical for Vulcans to even make that unfun.

Back in the cube, he picks the skin on his cuticles and tries to remember his Pa's stories to stretch out the hours. He's never tried to tell fairytales to himself before. 

"Ek-zer." Tahluk enters. There are no guards at the barrier. "Your food is here."

"Jim."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Jim. Thank you, I'm hungry."

"Here." Tahluk puts the plate down. Folded under the bowl is an envelope messily titled _ "Jim." _

"Be quick," Tahluk says, and gathering Jim's laundry, leaves through the narrow door.

It's Nyota's twirly writing, the lick of the "y" and the swirl of the dot over the "i." Jim sinks down the wall, crushing it to his chest.

_ Dear Jim. _

_ Hang in there! We're all thinking of you. _

_ Taluhk took this letter for you. He's on our side but we have to be careful because he belongs to the old Vulcan. We have a plan to get out and he's going to help us. You have to get rid of this letter after you read it. _

_ Lots of kisses, _

_ Nyota _

xxx

He tears the piece of paper with Nyota's kisses and hides it within the core of his fist. The other paper he sheds and chews and flushes down the toilet.

Tahluk arrives back, folding the fresh smock by the door. Hidden in his robes are a pen and pencil. Without a word, he leaves it on Jim's dinner tray. In the moments he clears up, Jim has already scrawled a reply. Tahluk retrieves it and vanishes through the barrier. How he wishes he could leave kisses and well wishes, but time is short and crucial and oh, how hope hurts sometimes.

_Ny, Scotty _

_ I'm missing you both. What's the plan? _

_ Jim _

* * *

He didn't listen before, didn't want to inhale any of this toxic culture, terrified it would blight his brain, melt his defences. But he listens because there is something eating below the surface.

First of all, he learns the Matron's name is T'lanne, and like the old Vulcan, she "has" a human. There are many humans on the ship and as the weeks go on, the Vulcans seem content to show them off more and more.

_ This is our future, _ Jim thinks grimly. I _ n the classroom, reading other people's history and being forced to make it our own. To be helpers and handmaidens and slaves. They are just showing us now what they think we cannot change. _

The Matron's human is a young, pretty girl. She answers to the name Liseng as if she is still trying to get used to it. She is always a shadow at the Matron's ankles, long black hair a shield over her face. Unlike Tahluk's plain, white robes, she's dressed in yellow, and her collar is a golden chain, spotted with flowers. Nyota observes it with a dreamy smile, and with a sigh, brushes her hands over her smock.

As the children are herded out for dinner, Jim catches Liseng's arm and smiles brightly, lazily. T'lanne's fingers freeze over the blue light of her PaDD. 

"Hey," Jim coos. "You're really pretty. I like your necklace. What is your name?"

She can barely get the breath out to reply before Jim's collar is seized, and before he knows it, the cold of the Isolation Cube is freezing up his backside and T'lanne's back is stiffly walking away.

"She's really pretty, you know!" Jim screams until the walls shake with it. "Is she single, by any chance?"

* * *

_ Jim _

_ Taluhk knows somebody. They are going to put us on a ship and take us far away to other humans. I hope my sisters are there. Maybe your family is there too. He says in two weeks, tops. He has a job for me and Ny and a job for you. He'll slip it to you somehow. He's a clever sod. _

_ Keep your head up, _

_ Scotty _

_ PS - I don't send kisses. Sorry, love. _

_ PPS Xxx _

* * *

"Your name?"

"Nyota Uhura."

A sigh.

"Your name?"

"Jim Kirk."

"I see." T'lanne moves to Scotty. There is just the three of them now. The other children have been dismissed back to the dormitories. The heat has been turned up. Nyota takes deep breaths, trying to level herself, like before she performs. Jim tries to think of cold water and not the suddenly appeared line of Vulcan scientists, PaDDs in their hands, like this is a lecture hall and they're the frogs spread-eagled on the metal trays. The elder Vulcan is there. He catches Jim's eye. Jim glowers at him in challenge until the old bastard raises a high eyebrow, and seems to almost smile.

Scotty's hair is soaked and his face lobster red. Sweat coils off him like musk. 

T'lanne stands above him.

"Your name."

No answer.

She crosses her arms.

"Your _name._"

Scotty smirks and shakes his head.

"You will answer me."

"Deaf, are ya?" Scotty's snarl rasps out from his throat. "Dumb? For the last fuckin' time, you daft cow, it's Monty! Monty Scott!" There is no humour this time. No wink, no sparkle. Jim blinks. Ny stares at him, aghast. "It was Monty Scott when I was born, and It's gonna be Monty Scott when I die! So there! There's your answer!"

"It is not the answer we desire."

"I dunnae care what you desire!" Scotty shouts; his accent thickens and pulls apart under the strain. Eyes boiling with tears, he launches at her. Jim jumps; so does Ny. They grab his shoulders and waist, trying to pull him back. Scotty's hands are balled into T'lanne's robes. Ny whispers into his ear, kisses his cheek, tries to rock him. The old Vulcan scratches something on his PaDD. "I want my Da! And my sisters! I want my dog Spot and my grandpa! I wanna go home, home..."

"Enough, Falor." T'lanne shakes her head. "As we have explained, this is your home now, and that is not going to change."

Scotty falls still. Jim senses the quake running through him like a thunderclap.

He spits at her feet.

The clack of a PaDD being set aside.

The elderly Vulcan has risen. Beside him, the younger scientists murmur, stepping aside to grant him room. Some even look dully excited.

The three children freeze.

Crossing his arms behind his back, he ambles to where they stand, and with a deftness undetected by any of them, at least at first, he settles his fingers on Scotty's cheek and temple and pulls his hand away before the boy can even register his touch.

T'lanne looks at him, unreadable. If Jim didn't know any better, he would even think she was surprised.

Something is wrong.

In his arms, Scotty shakes, a full body tremble. His eyeballs squeeze out of his sockets and he begins to whimper, to flick his tongue between his teeth as if starting to speak, and finding himself unable to.

"Scotty?" Nyota pulls at him, brushes his hair out of his face. He just stares ahead, unable to see her, or Jim, who twists him in his arms and shakes him for good measure.

"What have you done?" He hisses. He peers up into T'lanne's unfeeling face. "What have you done to him? He's only a kid!"

"Falor," Cucumber steps beside T'lanne. Oh, great. The smartass brigade. "State your name, please."

Scotty's eyes light up. He jerks up his chin, opens his mouth, and -

"M -"

He closes it.

Opens it again.

"Mmm-al..."

All Jim can see is the bulging whites of Nyota's eyes. She cuddles into his neck.

"Come on, Monty," she pleads. "Come on, you can do it. You're Monty Scott, remember? Our promise?"

The Vulcans mutter. It could almost be a tittering. The Elder clasps his gnarled hands in front of his lap and waits.

"Your name," Cucumber's lips are_ not_ in a straight line. "If you would be so kind."

Scotty tries again.

"Mmmm...F-al..."

Tears swell in his eyes. He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. 

"Monty Scott!" Nyota's voice seems to come from all corners as if she's been wired into the ship itself. "His name is Montgomery Scott! I won't forget!" Pushing Scotty behind her, she stares up into Cucumber's face with pure, righteous rage. Scotty just cries, cries, open-mouthed and silent, hiding into her back. "As we've explained, that's not going to change, ever ever_ ever!"_

* * *

Its the Isolation Cube for all three of them, and Jim thinks it's going to be forever until Cucumber comes to collect him, strong-arming him back into his broom cupboard.

As he drives the hours away in the bedroom, he tries to imagine what their so-called "jobs" were. Nyota and Scotty had said they were sworn to secrecy, but he knew they'd told each other. Somehow, that makes him feel very lonely.

He hasn't had his job yet.

When he wakes, he finds the same weak, green soup he despises, and beneath that, a letter. 

The handwriting is adult and titled simply "Jim."

_ Jim, _

_ You must do something for me. I apologise for asking this of you, but you are not like the other children. You understand what is at stake. _

_ Kuvak is the name of the Elder Vulcan on board this ship. I will leave in this letter the hob key required to enter his quarters. At 1700 hours I will accompany him to dinner. I must be seen with him so I or the other humans on board are not suspected. _

_ You are a child. The Vulcans are arrogant. They do not believe you are capable of outwitting them. _

_ In Kuvak's room is a cabinet on the right-hand side of the bed. Enclosed in the doors is a panel. The combination of the panel is attached to this letter. Keep it safe within your logbook. _

_ At exactly 16:45 hours the door to your bedroom will release. You have twenty minutes of clearance time to enter Kuvak's chambers - the third door of the sixth corridor on the second floor - and take the item from the cabinet. It is a scanner needed to unlock the side vents in an emergency. It is kept in a red velvet bag. _

_ To show you understand and accept this message, leave your knife and fork on the plate. If you do not wish to do this, do not do the former. _

_ I am counting on you, Jim. _

_ Tahluk. _

The impassioned instructions are worlds away from what Jim understands of his occasional jailor. He scans the letter two, three times.

He thinks of Nyota, of the tremble in her hands as she tugged out all the pins the Vulcan Matriarchs had stuck in her hair.

Of Scotty, and the fat tears of terror swelling in his eyes as his tongue died in his mouth.

Jim crosses his knife and fork on his plate and pushes the dish away.

* * *

Jim doesn't quite believe it. But he waits until the numbers of his big digital clock click to 16:45, and pushing aside his homework, he creeps to his door and tests the lock.

It flits open as easy as breathing. Ironically enough, Jim forgets_ to_ breathe at that moment.

His bare feet are soundless as he traverses the walkways, going on tippy-toes past T'lanne's room. He tries to pretend he's creeping down to see if Santa Claus has come early on Christmas Eve and not the fact that he's about to break into the bedroom of the creepiest Vulcan of the lot.

The third door, sixth corridor, second floor. To have prevented the Vulcans from roaming the hallways, the humans must have done some serious time Jenga. Jim doesn't think luck like that exists.

He taps the hob key against the scanner, and the doors open, spilling out a scent of incense so thick it almost knocks Jim out. Holding his nose, he takes in a deep breath and ducks inside. The doors close neatly behind him.

God, he hopes he's not going to catch Kuvak in his underwear.

The bedroom is burgundy, black, like Sarek's heavy robes under the Iowa sunlight. Compared to their bare dormitories, where under no circumstance are they allowed posters or drawings or hangings or even the quilts they can sew together in the recreation room, Jim doesn't think he's seen so grand a bedroom. He can only think the elder - Kuvak - is more important than any of them know. Red drapes cling to the sides of the double bed, on a headrest shimmered with black sequins. They could be on a different planet altogether. Who knew the ship was carrying rooms like this? 

He muses on the bed. Where does Tahluk sleep? There is no other sleeping place in the room. Does he sleep on the floor, amongst the thick bear-like rugs? Is there a pull out under the large bed, like the extra bunk that Sam used to drag out when their cousins stayed over?

A flutter of footsteps descending the hall snaps him back to attention.

Glancing around, he spies the cabinet, and the strange symbols etched into the word. The cabinet drawfs him by a good metre, and he fears he won't be able to reach the scanner if it is in there at all. 

Pushing himself up on his tiptoes, he runs his fingertips down the split in the door until he discovers an indenture in the wood. It clicks beneath his fingers and opens to reveal a combination lock styled in those strange Vulcvan symbols. Jim pushes the paper beside the console, and keys in the combination.

The pause between where his fingers leave the pad and the cabinet unlocks is the longest moment in his life, but thanks be, as Scotty would say, it works.

The scanner in a small velvet bag slotted beneath scrolls of parchment that look like pirate treasure maps. Pulling the strings loose, he peers inside and sees the scanner key, inscribed with what he could only guess is Kuvak's name.

Voices. Creeping closer. Jim's head snaps up. Human and Vulcan, the latter in a one-sided conversation. With no time to think, Jim hauls himself into the cabinet and pulls it closed, his face pressed against the slit in the wood.

The doors fwip open, and robes shift across the polished floor. Kuvak regally takes his place in the centre of the room, dressed in the cerebral blue Jim had mentally called "his thinking dress." (He only ever wore it in the labs, or if he was observing them at play or work.)

Tahluk follows. His head is up and his hands are behind his back, perfectly neutral. Kuvak clicks his fingers; Tahluk nods, opens the wardrobe, gathering a bundle of brightly coloured silks, and patiently returns to the Elder's side. Beside Kuvak, he looks no more than thirty. Jim wonders why he thought he was so old, to begin with.

"Dvin-tor nash-veh, Tahluk."

It is the first time Jim has heard the Elder speak, even if it is in the rough, throaty Vulcanian. The voice, impossibly deep, vibrates into Jim's bones.

Kuvak has his arms outstretched. Without a word, Tahluk undresses him.

Kuvak's body is long and white and reminds Jim of the greaseproof paper his Ma would use to line her baking trays. Green blushes his bristled chest. Old man's hair, like his Granddad. Without his robes, he seems so much smaller. Tahluk goes to pull at the sash around his waist and Jim blanches, peeking between his fingers. 

Kuvak stops him, and speaks;

"Hiyet. Ik mokuhlek bek-tor abi' wuh khru lu nash-veh ma bolaya t' du. Du ma ovsoh muhl nash-gad. "

An easy breath seems to leave Tahluk's body. He keeps his eyes carefully forward, not drifting toward the cupboard.

"Nemaiyo, Tela'at."

"Sarlah. Tor aru-yem, k'diwa."

Kuvak, redressed, brushes his fingertips across the young man's hand. The human pauses and lowers his eyes, accepting the caress. Jim knits his brows.

Kuvak shimmers his bow fingers over Tahluk's neck, face, settling on his temple and cheek.

Jim waits, fidgeting, feeling a little sick.

Satisfied, Kuvak takes his hand away, and signals to the door. Tahluk bows his head, and follows as they exit together.

When the coast is finally clear, Jim slips out, full of lukewarm confusion. It looked like affection, but it couldn't be, not really. Not when somebody is a servant, right? He chews his lower lip. He has the weird feeling he has come upon something he isn't quite old enough to understand. 

He doesn't want to think about it.

Tiptoeing to the door, he presses his ear against it and waits. 

The footsteps finally dwindle away and he knows the Vulcans have gone for dinner.

The doors part beneath his weight and he stumbles out with a muffled cry.

Nothing.

The hallways are empty.

Jim picks up his feet and runs.

* * *

Jim is allowed back into the dormitories the night it happens.

He's crept into Nyota's bed, dozing against her shoulder. Scotty is coiled into him, drooling on his nape.

A low, thin sound seems to rouse him out of sleep. It reminds him faintly of a dog whistle. He rubs his eyes; yawns.

Light floods the room.

Tahluk stands in the door, without his collar and calm. His eyes are huge in his head. Green drips from his knuckles and his face is grey, hollowed.

"Come on!" He hisses. "All of you, up up up!"

He is shadowed by faces. Human faces, of all shades and ages, suddenly animate, alive. Jim has seen them all in the background of the ship, not better than human wallpaper. Uninteresting, Jim thinks. But they've been all interesting, all this time. Like him, they'd been listening and seeing and waiting.

His Pa's voice drifts dreamily into his head.

_ Even the walls have ears and eyes, Jimmy. _

"What about the Vulcans?" Nyota says. She's not looking at the panicked faces, but at the green pooling at Tahluk's feet. Jim feels Scotty's cold, nervous palm slide against his. 

"I've bought time," Tahluk says. He looks up at Scotty's fierce, frantic face and added; "_ He _ bought us time."

Jim barely has time to ask why and how before a press of tall bodies stalls him. His feet stumble as a hand grabs his shoulder. He looks up and sees a woman, in her fifties, smiling all brave and comforting. 

Adults. There are _adults_ here. He's gotten so used to standing by himself he can barely think. There are adults here and they are going to take care of them, all of them.

Jim reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scanner, upturning it into Tahluk's palm. He doesn't look him in the eyes. He doesn't want to tell him what he saw.

They move less like a smooth operation and more like panicked mice, spotting a way out of the cage. The adults usher them in, keep them within the circle of their bodies. Some are armed with phasers. Jim sees Tahluk curl his hand into himself, staining the front of his robes.

"What did you do?" He clasps Nyota and Scotty's hands until they bruise. 

"Ny read about somethin' very interestin'," Scotty smiles despite his shivers. "My clever gal nows a thing or two about a sensitive ear, she does."

"Vulcans have different ears to us," Nyota says quickly. She scurries along with them. Green sways from her ears and knocks the inside of her neck. "I read it in one of T'Pring's books. If you play with a communicator console enough, you can make a really high sound. You know, like how dogs hear?"

"Ny calculated a sound high enough to knock those buggers out," Scotty jokes, but he's pulling her close, Jim closer. They could almost be conjoined twins; Ny to his hip, Scotty fused under his armpit and chest. "Somethin' about them bein' telepathic and stuff. Of course, me bein' so wee, I could squeeze into their console's default gauge and muck up the wires a bit, with Ny's help."

"Damn," Jim sees the starlight startle inside his muddy eyes, his wicked little grin. "I hope you two do open a radio station. It'll be the best in the galaxy."

* * *

A scuffle.

The men in the group move to the front of the circle, hauling a figure out to the side. A Vulcan hobbles out of view, holding his ears, green dribbling from the cavity and drying in the pit of his neck. Nyota recoils, shooting a glance at Scotty.

"We had to do it, Ny," He says, even as he tremors. "It be the only way we can be together."

A flash of light, a burn of a phaser. Jim closes his eyes, squeezes Nyota's hand.

_ There is a shot of lightning and his father crumbles inward. Another, and Mama falls, chickens scattering and shrieking. His father rises; swings for the leader. Another strike of light and this time his father does not get up. _

Flash.

_ "Jim, run. Run, baby. Go and hide, we'll follow, go and..." _

"Run!" Tahluk's voice, in his human language, sounding so far from his frail, low Vulcanian. "We've got to get to the meet point, now!"

A rabble of illogical humans, dragging the children through the halls, passing stirring shapes. A guard cries out in Vulcan, rough and guttural and Tahluk cringes.

"Du ma pusvik-tor etek, Tahluk!"

He shouts back and Nyota winces, pressing between Jim and Scotty.

"Ni'droi'ik nar-tor, hi nash-veh ma rai dvel!"

* * *

When Jim finally sees the airlock, he thinks his legs will give out. It's like he's run a marathon. Tahluk slides beside him and takes the scanner from his hand.

"Thank you, Jim," He squeezes his shoulder. "I knew I could rely on you."

He runs his scanner over the door and there is a _shuck_ of a bolt unfastening. The door slides open and there are faces. Human faces, in torn earth clothing, dirty and tired and wonderful.

Jim can barely grin before he hears a noise like a choking cat, and he turns.

A figure crouches in the corridor. The lights spinning past the hallway windows shimmer on her bare arms and legs. A towel tangles loosely around her legs. Jim stares in horror. Tahluk pushes Scotty and Nyota through the door to the attached shuttlecraft.

She's human.

"Jim," Tahluk says. His voice is so very different. It is as if another man has emerged in his place. His tone is high, fast, desperate. "There is no time to lose. You must come." 

"But she's...!" Jim cries out. "She's dying, can't you see..."

Her throat seems to squeeze for air, an awful hacking of breath that sounds like crying. Jim has one foot in the shuttle car. He looks back at them, at Tahluk, at Scotty, at the burning of Nyota's eyes. She fiddles with her ear.

"Go on," he says. He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes from him, from a place in his chest he never knew even existed. "I can't leave her. We'll find each other later."

"Jim..." Scotty swears, but he looks beyond, to the girl, and bites the back of his thumb. All wit has left him. "We won't leave you."

"We'll find you, Jim," Nyota's lips are a dry pressure on his cheek, her fingers slipping him something that cuts into his palm. Jim turns his head and catches her lips by accident."I promise."

But there are adults grabbing at his shoulders, hauling him forward. Adults who know best, who will take care of them all. In their eyes, he's just a kid. Maybe -

A hand closes over his ankle and yanks.

It's one of the Vulcan scientists; Jim recognises his awful tallness. The smartass from the recreation room. 

Jim is stumbled back, out of the shuttle.

"Jim..."

"Holy shit, wait, wait....!!!"

But the shuttle door closes in a soft hiss, and the safety barriers slide into place, and like that, they're gone.

Its one, two seconds before the soft whir of the shuttlecraft is out of earshot. 

Jim screams. He kicks at the hand; misses, and catches the side of Cucumber's face. The Vulcan scientist groans and passes out. The low whistle fades, ends.

Liseng gives one final scream of breath and falls, and oh no, oh god no -

There is only one person who can help.

"T'lanne!" Jim cries and knows now he will not be free for a long time, but he trusts his friends. They won't leave him here. They won't, they won't. "Help! T'lanne!"

The doors at the end of the corridor softly break open, and mellow light falls on Liseng's trembling body, and on Jim, with his frustrated tears, beating at her chest.

* * *

The hallways come to life again. The hurried light that seemed to engulf everyone during the escape fades back to the sombre greys of the learning cubicles, the classrooms, the recreation room. The Vulcans, in agony moments before, collect themselves and retrieve their PaDDs, their files, dab away at the blood and mucus like its a coffee spillage.

Jim is curled into Liseng. 

The frail beats of his fists have restarted her heart.

* * *

The arrows on the life support machine flitter over the hospital bed. He sits on the hard, white chairs, looking at the beds, and looking away when the elderly Vulcan - Kuvak - comes in.

Tuhlak had said his name had meant "bold palm."

He does not look bold now. In fact, he looks older than ever, shrunk inside his skin, bent over at his long back. His hands are behind his back, and a splotch of dark, dried green sits above his temple. Jim twists his head and sees the collar, buckled with green silk, fixed inside his fist.

Jim is the only child left. He smoothes out the hard cotton of his smock and waits.

A man whispers into T'lanne's ear.

Jim observes his pale toes, the nails too short, bloodied where he's picked them raw in the Cube.

T'lanne's black heels clack in front of him.

"Ek-zer, do you know anything about this?"

Kuvak's polished boots join hers, grim twins to Jim's sad little toes.

"No," he says.

"Fascinating," She says, softly. Jim hates that word. "This is the first time you have answered to your name, and it is to lie."

Jim sucks his lower lip, wondering why he isn't crying. But he knows the reason. There are no other children here, no Nyota or Scotty, just him and the growing circle of Vulcans. No expression, no hiss of breath, no grinding teeth, no tapping feet. Just them, closing in, hands behind their backs and chins on their chests, gazing down at him. Jim wonders if they're rubbing off on him.

"Is Liseng okay?" Jim whispers.

"She will be fine," T'lanne's tone yields by a tiny lilt and Jim feels a rush of horror and pride that he can read her so well. "She shall be treated for her asthma. It had gone undetected until now." 

_ You would have known sooner if you asked her, _ Jim thought bitterly. _ And you don't know if she was running to join us or staying behind, but you'll believe what you want, so what does it matter? _

"Oh," He kicks his feet and sniffs. "Good."

"Your compassion is noted," She replies. "It has worked in both your and our favour, as it required you to stay behind. However, you were in the process of fleeing. So, logically, you must have known about it."

"It was a rumour," Jim drawls, dragging out his country accent. "I just followed the other children."

"Negative," Kuvak rasps. The other Vulcans glance at him and whisper. It is the first time Jim has ever heard him speak English. "You have been insubordinate since you were brought here. You would not merely follow anyone."

"I don't know."

"Another lie."

"I don't have to tell you anything, _ Kuvak _."

Silence.

"Kuvak," a young Vulcan closes into the circle. "The child is human, and therefore distressed. For all his arrogance, he did draw attention to Liseng's illness. I say we allow him to rest and interrogate him later."

"Negative." Kuvak's nostrils flare. "I say we proceed now to prevent any opportunity for impairment of his memory." 

Jim looks between them all.

"Proceed with what?"

A weak wail breaks the silence. T'lanne moves away from the group to shadow Liseng's bedside, placing two spidery fingers on her sweat smeared brow. Liseng quietens, falls still.

Jim violently shudders.

"Elder," The young Vulcan bows his head. "I wish no disrespect. But I believe..."

"Enough." Kuvak holds up his hand. "Bring the boy to the bed. Sedate him."

Jim shakes his head.

"No."

The young Vulcan raises an eyebrow curved like a bowstring and places his hand on his thin hip. 

"There will be no discomfort," He says, almost kind. "You are a child. Your youth allows all your thoughts to reside within the shallow veins of the mind. The truth shall be extracted quickly and painlessly."

"Sonak." A Vulcan woman, queenly and cold. He knows her. Her daughter, T'Pring, was to receive Nyota as a helpmeet. Nyota's earring scrapes against his thigh, poked in the inner leg of his smock. "It is unwarranted to explain to the human child the method upon which we shall extract the information. He does not have the capacity to understand."

"I don't want a mind meld!"

Every dark eye swivels to Jim. He stands upright, his fists balled by his sides. He's grown a little in the months since he's been here. He's almost ten and the world doesn't seem so awfully big, but everything is doubly helpless and he refuses to accept this. 

T'lanne removes herself from Liseng's side.

"How do you know that, Ek-zer?"

Jim remembers her past comment and closes his mouth.

She watches him, steady.

"Put him on the bed," She instructs, cold. "Use the minimal force. I shall require a sedative."

There are no others to fight for now. Jim, feeling less a hero and more a terrified child, fights for himself, for the first time in months.

* * *

"My mind to your mind."

_ No! Get out! I hate you! _

"My thoughts to your thoughts."

Deadweights push his limbs into the mattress. His sight is groggy. Fingers trace his temples and his breath begins to break. In, out, in, out. Faster and faster and faster.

"I feel what you feel."

_ No, you don't! _

"I know what you know."

The world ripples. He feels different. Light. He can smell honeysuckle, apple crumble pies, the sweet heavy smell of fresh hay. Sam and Ma and Dad and -

No.

_ No! _

"Baby," Ma strokes his hair from his face. "Baby, please tell us what you know. We'll find them all, and you can see your friends, and we'll all be together."

"Ma," Jim whimpers. "Ma, what's happening?"

"You're with us, sweetie," She takes his hand. "We're all here, with you."

** "Elder Kuvak, I must protest. The ethics of this intrusion... **"

"Just tell us, Jim." Dad places his hands on Jim's chest, so huge around his ribcage. Big, too big. "It'll all be over, kiddo."

** "Sonak, cease your protests. They are uncharacteristically emotional, and therefore, disruptive to our goals." **

"I'm scared, Pa," Jim's tears cut hot tracks in his cheeks. Shadows shift around his parents, faceless pockets of dark shimmering in the dry light of his Ma's kitchen. "Please come and get me. Take me away. I miss you, I want to go home."

The shadows shuffle, whisper.

"You tell us, Jim," Ma says. "You tell us and we'll come and get you."

** "That is a lie." **

** "Hush, Sonak." **

** "I did not believe we could lie." **

** "We can imply for the greater good. Now allow the elder to focus." **

His Ma's voice is as sweet as candied apples.

"Please, baby. Come on, you're almost there."

Jim's lip wobbles. His nose is running unchecked. He starts to cry, a puncture in the air, like a blunt trauma from his throat.

"Why do I have to tell you?" He weeps. "Why can't you just come and get me?"

** "Enough, Elder. He is not yielding. If you apply further pressure..." **

** "The child is resisting. Fascinating. Elder, are you unable to ply the information we require?" **

Ma, Pa and Sam draw away. The sunlight blooms, bursts, becomes agonising. Memories begin to shortcircuit across his eyes like a faulty tv screen.

** "Elder..." **

** _ "Such a strong, virile mind." _ **

"TELL ME."

NO!

The pressure becomes tight, tighter, like a blood pressure cuff on his brain.

* * *

"NO!" Jim tears his face away. The digits screw tighter against his cheek and hairline. He forces his eyes open. Kuvak looms close, so close, a terrible look in his dead eyes, but something else. Hunger. "It's not my fault..!"

_ "Elder!" _

Sonak's proclamation forces the fingers to detach, and the world, all of its cold chrome and white chair and dull blue sheets come rushing back, and there's a twist in his neck and everything goes black. 

* * *

Who knew to be selfless hurt so bad? 

He thought it felt good to do good things. 

He's so happy his friends are free.

But he's alone.

He's alone, he's alone, he's alone -

* * *

Jim is back in the dormitories, each line of beds empty save for one. The latch of Ny's earring sits into his palm; pokes skin until he feels the blood seep through the scratch. 

He wonders if they have put him here to feel even more lonely. 

"Ek-zer." The Matron looms at the end of his single bed."We have a placement for you."

"For me?" Jim sniffs, wipes his nose with his forearm. The Elderly Vulcan is at the door. Without his pet human, he looks smaller, extra stiff, very old, but the sight of him is enough to make Jim violently flinch. "I thought you said I was without hope."

She raises an eyebrow.

"My exact phrasing was "with limited progress." But no matter. Regardless, you have been requested."

Jim is so tired from crying.

"Requested?"

"Affirmative. You are to be the aide to Ambassador Sarek's son, Spock."

Suddenly, he is not so tired.

He snatches his empty plate from his side table and throws it. Porcelain bounces off the white floor and white walls and why is everything so large, so colourless, so soundless?

"Him!" He cries. "Sarek was the one who stole my parents!"

"Refrain from raising your voice, Ek-zer."

"My name is Jim." He whispers it in the back of his throat. His eyes narrow and he feels eerily calm. The wrecked pieces of his plate settle."I would rather die than play with a monster's son!"

"Ambassador Sarek is being generous." The Matron, untouchable, folds her fingers together. "Without his patronage, you would remain here, as an object of study, until you finally learned to integrate with the maturity and manner we expect of our wards. This is a singular opportunity, and fortunately, one you cannot refuse." She turns away. "You shall be called for in the hour. Prepare yourself promptly."

His mouth hangs open. She begins to walk away.

No.

Jim Kirk was never left without the last word. Just ask his brother.

"Hey!" Jim sidles to the end of the bed. "Wait!" He thinks hard. "T'lanne!"

She pauses, tilts her head in his direction. 

"That is my name." She says. "You have been listening. It is impolite to address a superior so directly."

"Your human," Jim crosses his arms. "The pretty one. Liseng, I think you called her."

"She is my aide." T'lanne corrects, but Jim notes she does not dissuade the use of "pet." "And what is it of your concern, Ek-zer?"

"She doesn't love you," Jim whispers. The Elderly Vulcan raises a grey eyebrow. Nothing in T'lanne's features change, save a tiny twitch in the left side of her mouth. "She just does as she's told 'cos she's too scared to say no to you. Because you've frightened her. And that isn't loving, even for a Vulcan."

T'lanne watches him for a long time.

"Prepare yourself." There is a bare clipping of her tone. "Now."

She drops a folder at the end of his bed, and leaves, Kuvak in tow.

Prepare himself. For what? He has no belongings. All Jim has is his dry sweated smock, a chewed textbook, the gift of Thaluk's pencil and a bundle of torn letters with smeared kisses and best wishes, and an earring from a girl he had an accidental first kiss with.

And now this folder, fitted with his future owner.

Taking a deep breath, Jim scurries across the covers and opens it.

The boy looks older than him by almost two years. A high collar enfolds his neck in black. His ears are curled up to the curve of his flat black bangs, a shimmery bowl cut Sam would have found hilarious. He stares out of the picture, dark intensity in sloe eyes, purple bruised beneath his stern brow.

The name has been provided above in English.

**"Spock."**

* * *

_ "What does your name mean, Nyota?" _

_ "You'll laugh." _

_ "I won't laugh, I promise." _

_ "Okay. Promise?" _

_ "On my heart." _

_ "It means Star." _

_ "Star?" _

_ "Yes. And that is when it gets funny. You know my second name is Uhura, right? Well, that means freedom. Only Monty knows that, so..." _

_ "Star. Star of freedom. Ny, that's perfect. For you, that's perfect." _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dvin-tor nash-veh, Tahluk." ="Attend me, Tahluk." 
> 
> "Hiyet. Ik mokuhlek bek-tor abi' wuh khru lu nash-veh ma bolaya t' du. Du ma ovsoh muhl nash-gad. ="Enough. That can wait until the evening when I have need of you. You have done well today." 
> 
> "Nemaiyo, Tela'at." ="Thank you, Elder."
> 
> "Sarlah. Tor aru-yem, k'diwa." ="Dinner. Come, beloved."
> 
> "Du ma pusvik-tor etek, Tahluk!" ="You have betrayed us, Tahluk."
> 
> "Ni'droi'ik nar-tor, hi nash-veh ma rai dvel!" = "I am sorry but I have no choice."


	3. Amanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets a taste of his new world.

The world glows red as they enter Vulcan's atmosphere. The sky is dry and speckled with sand that roils in the stolid air.

Jim has never suffered from anything like airsickness but he feels it now, an ugly turntable in his belly as the shuttle descends. They've taken away his uniform smock (he had the presence of mind to snatch Nyota's earring before it joined the laundry pile) and forced him into a cotton robe of mustard yellow, the same outfit Tahluk seemed to wear with feigned pride. They've styled the waves of his hair, trimming the edges and pinning it back with gold clips. 

He has shoes for the first time since his ruined trainers; soft sand leathers on his feet that squeak each time he flexes his toes. He's been prepared and perfumed, scrubbed by unfeeling Vulcan women until he had to tearfully explain that the spots on his back were freckles, not dirt (they'd drawn blood with their scouring.)

Kuvak sits on the opposite bench, his fingers steepled under his nose. His eyes are closed, as if in meditation, and he is so still and silent Jim wonders (hopes) if he has died.

Beside him is Sonak, who is as young as Kuvak is old. He's dangerously thin, lanky, long-bodied with hands too big for his arms. He has his legs delicately crossed over like a lady as he scans his PaDD.

Jim shuffles closer to the side where Sonak is seated.

As they land, there is a call from the cockpit. Without a glance at Jim, Sonak crosses through the automated doors and they close with a gentle _fwip._

Silence.

Jim wiggles his legs, chews his thumb. There is nothing but the whir of the engine grinding to a stop and the slow, paced breathing of Kuvak. 

Idly, he props himself up on the bench, risking a view of the window.

A spiky city of black marble shines beneath a huge, sweltering ball of sun, half-mast on the horizon. The air shimmers with the heat, a griddling haze above the sands.

"Our ancestral home," Kuvak speaks. The heat eats through the glass, radiating against Jim's fingertips. "A rare sight for human eyes."

"Are there not many humans here?" Jim sidles down, avoiding Kuvak's stare. 

"The number is permittable for our needs."

Jim swings his legs. Kuvak places his hands in his lap.

"Permittable?"

"Exactly."

"Must be a lot then."

"What brings you to that conclusion?"

"There's a lot of you," Jim explains. "You must need a lot of slaves."

"Humans employ no moderation, no patience." Kuvak's boots are pressed hard against the floor, knees so close together. Maybe he can't stand Sonak's louche way of sitting. How can it be comfortable, sitting like that? Does a comfortable Vulcan exist? "The slightest pressures on what they term their liberty, and their complete inability for foresight comes to light."

Jim swings his legs a little harder. 

"Will you get another human?"

Kuvak raises an eyebrow. 

"Explain."

"Will you replace Tahluk?" Jim knows it is unwise. Him, alone with Kuvak, mere steps away from his so-called new family. But the pressure of the old codger's meld spikes in his brain. To take his family, to twist their faces with his words. He has been silent and good but he has not forgotten. "You called him beloved, didn't you?"

Kuvak places his hands in his lap.

"I see you are lowering yourself to human spite."

"Maybe," Jim wheedles. "But you are incapable of offence, right? So it doesn't matter what I say."

"Affirmative," the old man says. "To answer your belligerent question, I will not replace my aide, for Tahluk shall be returned to me in due time."

"That won't happen."

Kuvak doesn't stiffen, square his jaw, twitch his lip like the other Vulcans. The serene fury from before is gone. Instead, he looks thoughtful. The bruise above his brow is healed into a green mat.

"Your knowledge of Vulcans are limited." He has a voice like a Grandfather. It could almost be warm. Almost. 

"Oh, I think I've seen enough," Jim kicks his legs faster. He adds strongly; "I'll manage, _ Elder." _

* * *

Stairs descend from the shuttlecraft as Jim is nudged forward, his single bag of belongings bumping against his leg. Sonak shadows him one side, Kuvak on the other. 

It is like stepping into a blast furnace. It rips the breath from his lungs, dries his eyes and tongue and throat, makes him choke.

By the time they reach the port, Jim's little legs are made of lead. His neck and back are pelted with sweat. Kuvak turns his gaze down to Jim, and through the blackening at the corner of his eyes, Jim thinks he almost looks satisfied.

"Ek-zer," Sonak hovers his hand over his shoulder. "You will adjust. It will take time."

Jim whines between his teeth and tugs at his robes.

"I'm too hot," He whimpers. "I don't like these. They're too heavy."

Neither Vulcan replies.

* * *

The inside of the SpacePort is cool enough that Jim can take one deep, gulping breath, The light soothes and finally, Jim can look around without squinting.

It is enormous, blue-hued marble and black swirled floors, mapped by the quiet, conversing figures of Vulcans. Not just steely scientists, but families, couples, even one pretty teenager with what looks like a big teethed baby bear at the end of a lead. 

There is even a cafe in the corner like you would find in an airport or train station. An overwhelmingly green buffet is laid out beside a Vulcan male in white scrubs, beside a pile of grey stoneware bowls and a dispenser of what looks like prune juice. On the other side of the main walkway is a grand clothes shop, fitted with more of the ugly, heavy robes Jim hates, and in the window, a tall, handsome Vulcan, overseen by the store owner, is being measured by...

A human man, dressed in light beige, on his knees as the two Vulcans discuss specifics.

By the cafe, a human collects the used bowls and glasses, his head down. The Vulcans talk over tea and look right through him.

A fashionable Vulcan woman engages her friend in conversation. Beside her is a human woman in orange, bobbing a sullen pointed eared baby on her hip. 

It is as if a coil of string passes from each human to the next, in a direct line to Jim's eyes. For a moment, it is all he can see, humans lifting and carrying and caring, stood behind and beneath, heads down and hands clasped.

For a second, Jim doesn't want to look anymore, so he looks up.

Painted on the ceiling is an enormous star map, Vulcan borne in the centre like a great sun and dotted around it, smaller and less brilliant in comparison, other planets that Jim has only heard of in earth classrooms and from his Dad's stories. 

Each planet is connected to the big Vulcan sphere by blue trains of ink. Earth is there, crammed among the lesser planets, and Jim's chest hurts at the sight of it.

Written above in high Vulcanian are words that Jim's limited understanding can just about make out.

_ The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. _

"Sonak," He asks. The two Vulcans have moved on a little ahead, leaving Jim in the centre of the walkway, staring up at the ceiling. "Who is the few and who are the many?"

Kuvak observes from the corner of his eye.

"It is a saying crucial to our core teachings," Sonak explains with something like softness. "The many pose the greatest benefit to our progress. The few are those who focus on minor liberties and believe that these are prime justification for tearing down an established order that has allowed prosperity for many years, and will in time, privilege all who have partaken in our vision."

Jim frowns up at the great, glowing ball of Vulcan. It sounds hokey to him, tangled and over complicated.

The pretty teenager with her hair spun up in swirls pauses by the clothes shop, her pet mouthing at its paw like a puppy. A human girl in yellow, plain in comparison, clicks her fingers and whistles gently. The baby bear shakes itself and sits upright, still, but the teenager glances at her sharply. The girl drops her head, presses her fist against her chest in a signal Jim does not understand.

"Your attendance of I'Tell's behaviour was unacceptably delayed," The Vulcan declares, hard. Jim suddenly thinks she's not so pretty. "You were exactly 14.7 seconds late in addressing the habits I find intolerable. Such displays impair my social status in the continuous assessment carried out by my peers. Explain."

The human girl bows her head further.

"Apologies, _Trensou, _" She replies, quietly. The bear thing brushes against her knee, adoring. "It was just if I am too stern..."

"Are you making an excuse for your incompetence?"

"No, I..."

"Are you opposing me?"

A silence falls. A group of suited Vulcans, seated at their station by the main door, slowly turn their heads.

The girl gabbles and shakes her head.

"Never," she whispers. "I am sorry. It will not happen again. I shall be more proficient in future."

"Or..." Jim calls, fury crawling up his body. The bear tugs at the end of the lead, panting, at the sound of his voice. "You can look after your own damn pet!"

There is the crack of a bowl from the cafe. The families slowly push their children behind them.

"Ek-zer." Kuvak's voice is a whiplash on Jim's nerves. He has the phantom memory of fingers on his face. "Desist in intervening in matters that are not yours to argue. Come here."

Jim glowers at the Vulcan teenager. She, in turn, appraises him with the grace of something she's found at the bottom of her gleaming pumps.

Jim spins on his heel, marches between the two adult Vulcans. Anger is ripe adrenaline, beating hard in his head. All eyes are on him.

"I take it," He says to Sonak as they stalk away (and he feels a little guilty disappointing Sonak, and he doesn't quite know why.) "...that we are the few?"

* * *

Sarek, exactly as he remembered him, imposing in his decorated robes. He stands at the centre of the Embassy room as if he owns it.

Jim has the overwhelming desire to hang between his legs and _tug. _

Beside him is a woman soothed in soft blues and pinks, a veil hung high over her head. Jim pushes himself up on his tiptoes to see her better. Beneath the shimmer of fabric, he sees her face. A careful, cautious smile, and light eyes beneath fair lashes, hazel hair pinned over her neck. Her throat is collared in pearls and blue stones.

She is frail and beautiful and very human.

Jim pulls himself back and looks to Sonak for an explanation, who offers none, so he searches the room for the slim, severe shape of Sarek's wife. But there is nobody but this lady, soft and short in all her pinks, and Sonak leaves them alone together, joining Kuvak and Sarek in the next room.

"Welcome, Ek-zer," She provides him with that same funny salute as T'lanne. She pins the veil above her head, revealing her face. "I welcome you into our family."

To see such a smile makes it almost impossible for Jim not to ache, to not burrow himself in her stomach and wail.

He no longer thinks himself capable of that.

"Are you Sarek's wife?" 

"Yes, I am." She lowers her lashes modestly. "A singular honour."

"What is your name? Mine is Jim."

He holds out his hand to shake. Her smile does not falter, but her eyes wrinkle in concern. She does not take his hand.

"My name is Amanda, Ek-zer."

"That's a human name!" Jim bounces on the balls of his feet. "Right?"

"A singular honour, Ek-zer."

"Jim," He crosses his arms. "Don't be like them. You don't have to be like the others."

Her smile becomes dazzling. As pretty as it is, something about it makes Jim want to backpedal about ten paces.

"You are perfect for him," She says, more to herself then Jim. She parts his hair with her fingers, stroking back to the scalp. The contact is so light, so tender, so unquestioningly motherly that Jim has to hiccup back a sob.

The three Vulcans reenter the room and Amanda retreats, placing her veil back over her face. Sarek stands beside her, and with a steady gaze at Jim, presents his two bow fingers in her direction. Promptly, she returns the gesture, and slinks back into the foreground, entering the second room and staying there.

"Ambassador," Sonak stands behind Jim. "An aide for your son, as requested. Ek-zer. Aged nine Terran years, nine months, and four days. Prime health, of diligent mind and disposition. Behavioural imperfections may occur, but can be rectified with time and intervention if so wished."

Jim shifts away from Kuvak.

"Affirmative." Sarek nods. He stands in front of Jim, unbearably tall. "Ek-zer of Vulcan, you are now a citizen under Vulcanian rule. You will have the protection of my name, and therefore the bind of your allegiance shall be to the house of Surak for as long as you shall live."

_ Like wedding vows, _Jim thinks bitterly.

Sarek continues.

"You will be aide and companion to my son, Spock. He will direct you as he sees fit and you will serve his requirements. Do you understand?"

Whether crouched in hay beneath a burning sky or stood in the cool, remote rooms of an embassy, in strawberry stained t-shirts or ugly robes he wouldn't put on his dog, the glare Jim gives Sarek is exactly the same.

"Yes," he sneers. "I understand."

Sarek rises a primed eyebrow. In his head, he hears Scotty say that he should get those hairy slugs trimmed.

"Good." He turns. "Follow me, Ek-zer. You are to meet my son."

Jim reluctantly follows, trying to hang back before Kuvak's hand ghosts his back and Jim speeds up, shivering.

The corridors thin out, sloping down into a stone passageway, lined with bells and rugs and wallhangings of black, blue and purple. 

The study they arrive at is boring in comparison. A large window looks out toward high sands and heavy skies. Red and yellow, a hot clash, but beneath the window, Jim can see sprouts of green and mauve, thick thorned and fat petaled flowers, and small pockets of vegetation burst from the rock like swathes of green paint. 

Sat by the desk is Amanda, her hands on her lap.

Beside her is a boy; all high collar and nothing else.

"Spock." Sarek steps in front of Jim, like how a parent would hide a puppy at Christmas. "He is here."

The collar turns.

He is older than Jim, by at least a year, maybe two. He is small and dark and serious, black bowl cut tucked neatly into his high skull. Beneath a flat brow are eyes sat too deep in his head. 

He stares at Jim, at his hair, at his hands, even the sandals on his feet. He glances at his mother, who nods, delighted, and gestures for him to go ahead.

Sonak lightly pads Jim's shoulder.

"Greetings." Spock holds up his hand in a Vulcan salute. His words sound forced, maybe even shy, if not for the hunger in his little eyes. "I am Spock. You are to be my aide. Confirm?"

Jim knits his brow, opens his mouth.

Then he sees Amanda, trying to halt the shake in her white hands, big grey eyes so full and hopeful and Jim -

Why make yet another human unhappy?

"Greetings, Spock,' He parts his fingers flawlessly. He, Nyota and Scotty used to practice. Not for any formal reason, but to make fun of it. Scotty had mentioned something very rude about bow fingers and Nyota had almost knocked him out for it. "I am J - Ek-zer. I confirm."

A murmuring of disbelief from Kuvak, but Sonak stands a little straighter. Sarek burns his back with his smugness. Amanda beams at Jim as if he's just rewritten her entire world.

Spock nods as he pulls a box from his robes.

_ Oh great, _Jim thinks. _He's going to propose. _

"Kneel, Ek-zer," He says gravely like he's an undertaker. There is the littlest tremor in his hands and Jim blinks, confused. Can Vulcans tremble? "And thee shall retrieve thou token that bonds thee to thy house, and to thee, forever."

Jim doesn't like the sound of that. He glances at Sovak, who nods slowly, with the kind of quasi-comfort of _you're almost there. _

The box springs open. Inside is a necklace in plain gold, an amber stone inlaid in its centre. 

Jim has the flash thought that it matches his eyes.

A collar.

Tahluk, Liseng, Amanda -!

A flutter of robes brush the floor, and two fingertips are pressed lightly into his temple.

Jim's legs wobble and fold. He feels the dry, cool fingers of Spock attach the chain around his neck. It is the first touch they share, electricity that chokes all protest from his mouth. 

"It is done," Sarek announces. Spock, impervious to Jim's misery, looks up at his father with sullen pride.

Amanda, hidden behind her veil, gives no comment. Her hand skim to her neck, fingering the pearls.

Sonak rises beside Jim, who does not look at him. The frail trust he was beginning to shape toward the young Vulcan is shattered.

"Come, Ek-zer," Spock blinks his too-bright eyes. He takes hold of the sleeve of Jim's robe and tugs, too much like a kid. Jim, head buzzing, neck burning, is shocked out of his stupor. "We're going home. Attend."

* * *

They do not go "home" immediately. Jim has to stand numbly by as Kuvak provides Sarek with a PaDD to sign and date. They talk in Vulcan and Jim's kindergarten understanding of the language catches the word "payment" and he hears the machine trill with the universal exchange of credits. 

He hugs himself, pinching his arms. Nine months, and he still wants this all to be a dream. 

"Why are you hurting yourself, Ek-zer?" The Vulcan child has that same tone of dull surprise. 

"Because..." Jim huddles closer to him. Unlike the other Vulcans, Spock doesn't pull away. "...I-I am afraid."

"Illogical," Spock says. "There is nothing here to be afraid of. You are here with me now." Unbidden, he takes his hand. Sarek looks but does not elucidate. Spock's hand is cool and dry like _how it was on his neck _and it takes everything he has not to pull away. The boy raises an eyebrow and turns to his father.

"Wuh sa-kan tor koltha, sa-mekh. Tor au koltha t' nash-veh?"

"Au nam-tor ri wi veh k' etwel yut. Au tor nu'ri, spo' du, heh bolau tranush heh nahr, wuh latter ik du dang seek tor tanilau." Sarek holds out his fingers. Amanda approaches immediately, with a comforting hastiness. "Tor nash, heh du dungau ma wuh ha'kiv wu besu, u' ma nash-veh."

Jim can only catch snippets of the conversation, the pounding in his head so loud, but he stares at Spock, who looks back at him; expectant, innocent. 

* * *

Sarek's home is situated by the mountains, with the city on the horizon and small settlements close by in clusters of neat, flat-roofed houses of granite and glass. There is a shuttle line that transports the occupants from the "suburbs" into the city, a black snake of a craft that veers over the canyons and tough, twisted terrains of the Vulcan desert.

Jim can't stop staring. He's never seen land like it. Wild, brutal, ferociously, heavily hot, creatures both scaled and furred ambling over the ancient territories.

"That is Mount Seleya," Spock speaks to him as if he is slow. Jim, numbed by the collar, just nods. "It is a place of great cultural significance to our people. You will learn about it in the education pods. Do not worry. It will be put at a level that you will be able to follow and understand."

The home is spacious, clean, well ordered. It is not the cluttered, well-loved mess of his family home. It has no cupboards under the stairs, no attics stuffed with old goodies, no basement halfheartedly turned into a game room seven Christmases before so he and his brother had made it their den instead, no garage with a freezer stuffed full of ice cream they'll never eat and the mangy Moosehead Ma kept trying to sneak into the dumpster but Dad kept dragging it out every time.

It is like Kuvak's decor, but less grand, more livable. The kitchen is small, the lounge area more of a conference room, the toilet door built so seamlessly into the wall you could walk right past it if you weren't looking, and an entire upstairs he is banned from (minus Spock's bedroom.)

The bedroom that is now secondarily his.

Jim wanders in after the small stutter of Spock's feet, his paltry bag of belongings dragging behind. Even if Spock is older, the muted eagerness running through him like electric currents is so_ young. _ His bedroom is warm reds and blues. On the wall, there is an intricate map of the different solar systems, far more advanced than anything Jim saw at school. A lyre is propped in the corner, and besides that, a cabinet of sheet music, topped with a figure that Jim knows is Surak, the Vulcan Jesus, as Scotty had put it. In place of a bookshelf, there is a miniature learning centre, with twelve mini-screens set up around a chair. There are no toys, save a game of chess set on his desk, and a tall black cupboard for clothes.

"This is your corner, Ek-zer," Spock points it out. A thick mat is laid in the corner, a blanket folded beside it and a single pillow. Storage has been built into the wall. Jim kneels and pulls out a drawer. Underwear, robes, protective socks, all yellow. Beneath that, another drawer, empty. 

"For your own effects," Spock says. Jim nods, biting his lower lip. 

"It's..." He straightens out the pillow. "...nicer than the ship."

"The training ship, I presume?" asks Spock. He hasn't moved. Jim has the impression he can't quite believe he's there. "Were the facilities not sufficient?"

Jim's laugh is dry, bitter.

"You could say that." He tries to relax. "It was very crowded. And hot." He peers in the drawer once again. "Why is everything yellow?"

"It is the colour used to discern humans, and those in service," Spock is still standing there. Jim cocks his head. "All your garments will be yellow."

"What is yellow isn't my colour?"

"Why would that be relevant?"

"What if..." Jim crosses his arms. "...I didn't like the colour?"

Spock strikes up a thin brow.

"Why is that relevant?"

"Personal preference."

"Personal preference is not applicable to one in service."

"Right."

Jim starts filling the drawer. The few items he owns - his logbook filled with half letters, a smock and Nyota's earring, precious so hidden deep - seems small in the width of the storage.

Spock is still standing there.

Jim looks up, mulling.

"Spock." He stands up. "Why did your Pa choose me?"

Spock crosses and recrosses his arms. It's such a human thing that Jim just stares.

"Sa-mekh thought it necessary for me to have a companion."

"Why?" Jim keeps scanning the room for any kind of toy or entertainment. "Are you lonely?"

"I am..." Spock sits at the end of the bed. "...without companions."

"Huh." Jim shut the drawer with his foot. He tries to keep the bile out of his voice. It's not Spock's fault, not really. "Your Sa-mekh is the reason I have no companions."

"Your family," Spock says, matter of fact. "Yes. They were a disruptive influence. Sa-mekh rescued you."

Jim flinches. 

"Did he tell you that?"

Spock tilts his head.

"Why would he say any different?"

Jim takes a deep breath.

"Spock," He tries again. The older boy blinks at him, innocuous. "Your Mom and Pa. They have a special relationship."

Spock nods, slowly.

"And I..." Jim swallows. "...know your Pa calls your Mom by her earth name. Amanda."

"That is a privilege," Spock agrees, with the same kind of parroted breathlessness as his Ma. There was no denying she was his Mom. Spock was half-human; maybe there was hope.

"So, I was thinking..." Jim scoots to the end of his mat. "You want to be friends, right?"

Spock tightens his brow.

"That is an emoti..."

"Companions," Jim corrects himself, quickly. "Like your Ma, okay? Well..."

"I would find it pleasing to replicate their arrangement, yes."

God, it was too easy. Almost too easy.

"So, how about we have our own arrangement?" Jim springs up and beams at Spock. The boy blinks his dark eyes and tilts his head to the side. No expression, but he sticks his hands behind his back to stop them fidgeting. "How about, in public, you call me- " He can barely say it. "Ek-zer. Which isn't my name, my real name. A _real_ companion wouldn't call me that. How about you call me Jim, in private? It could be our secret."

"I do not understand the necessity of secrets," The little boy sits down on the end of his bed. Jim, without thinking, bounces beside him. Spock is almost taken off-kilter by the force of it."Vulcans do not lie, and therefore do not keep secrets."

"It's not a secret if you don't say anything to anyone," Jim reasons. "It's a choice."

Spock stares at him.

"I will consider it." He turns away. He pauses, then adds; "I find it fascinating. You have been here exactly fifteen minutes and sixteen point five seconds, and yet you already making demands."

Jim, careful to not push it further, hops down to his corner and starts to absently sort through his drawers. 

"Do you have any games? Toys?"

"No."

"How about that?" He points at the Chessboard. "Ma taught me how to play."

"I will beat you."

"Why?"

"I am yet to be beaten."

"Oh." Jim drops his hand. "If you say so. But I'll like to play anyway."

Spock, despite his protests, is already fetching it.

"Why play something you will lose?" Spock sits it on the floor. Jim joins him, and picking up the black queen, twiddles it between his finger and thumb.

"Sometimes it's fun to just try," He says with a smile. "And I could surprise you. One day."

Spock's face is immobile. He picks up his own queen and observing Jim carefully, mimics the action of Jim's fingers.

Jim sits, watching Spock watching him, their hands twins of each other.

His heart begins to flutter.

* * *

They play.

Spock beats him.

They play again.

Spock beats him five times.

On the seventh go, Jim's rook is absurdly close to Spock's queen. Jim's tongue is stuck between his teeth as he touches his knight, and -

"Dinner, Spock!"

The door bumps open. Yellow light softens around Amanda's hair, loose around her face, the lines beginning to scrawl in the corners of her eyes. 

When she sees them, her smile becomes huge, radiant, and she parts the door to usher Spock through.

Jim sits alone by the chessboard.

"Your dinner will be ready after ours," She says kindly, even as Jim's stomach growls in response. "Spock will be ready again soon."

She closes the door. Spock, her, and the light are gone.

Jim's neck starts to itch.

He grabs at the collar, trying to push his thumbs and forefingers under it. No luck. He scrabbles to the single mirror by the window and fondles for the clasp. He turns his head and sees a tiny keyhole at the back, a strange shape he has never seen before.

Hopeless, he falls back on his haunches. He glances at the mat, the blanket, and pillow, the hidden drawers. 

His little piece of the world.

Don't cry.

Don't cry, don't cry,_ don't -!_

As he furiously rubs his eyes, a flash of fur catches his eye, for stuck out behind Spock's closet is a furred foot.

Jim wipes his nose and sticks his hand between the wall and the cabinet, feeling the warm stuffing of it. It's soft, it's plush, it's like something from _home. _

Jim pulls and the floppy, fat thing unfolds, as if happy at finally being free.

Big fangs stick out from under the smiling snout. It's a teddy bear, frayed and well-loved, and from what Jim can see, home stitched.

Jim stands completely still, holding the bear out at arm's length. The arms, loose of stuffing, hang numbly down. The head lopes to the side, the smile awkward above the felt teeth. 

He buries his face in the belly of it. The bear smells of dust, of incense, and something like Spock, but the rustle of hair across his nose could be his cat, or Butler, his dog.

What had happened to Butler?

Don't think,_ don't -_

Curling himself up small on his mat, his nose to the bear, he squeezes his eyes tight. 

He dozes before he hears the click of the door and the clink of a bowl being laid on the floor

A hand on the bear.

_ On Butler. _

Jim shivers and shakes his head, tucks his body in like a vice.

The hand moves from the toy. The fingers, small, graze across his arm, shoulder, neck, and settle on his temple.

"No!"

Jim jolts, breathless, the toy crushed into him like a toddler.

Spock leans over him, the dying sunlight gleaming off his black hair, the curve of his cheek and brow.

"Ek-zer." He says. "You fell asleep."

"It's been a long day for me," Jim trembles. Spock keeps gazing at the space between his hand and Jim's head with a kind of longing and Jim shrinks. "I - I didn't mean to."

"It is not a criticism." Spock pushes the bowl to him. "Plomeek soup. Eat now."

It is an order. Sighing, Jim puts the bear behind him and reaches for it.

Spock pulls the bowl away.

Jim freezes.

Spock's eyes are huge and dark and empty.

_ "What is your name?" _

"Dinner, Ek-zer!"

Jim snaps awake. The light from the window has mulled from red to black.

Jim remembers his first lesson, brain baked in his skull and his pencil so slippery with sweat he could barely hold it.

There is no moon on Vulcan.

Everything about him is pitch black, a dark so absolute and suffocating Jim has never thought there could be darkness like it.

Jim stumbles, trips, breaking his skin on Spock's bed. The heat of blood pulses down his knees.

The collar on his neck is so tight. He can barely -

He gropes at it, accidentally releasing Butler and the emptiness of his arms makes him cry, roil. Sweat streams into his mouth and under his robe and it is so, so _hot _and he is going to die with it, he just knows -

The light flicks on.

Spock, armed with a plate of greens, stands with his hand over the switch.

He takes in Jim, sweating and bleeding, and the discarded bear at his feet.

His brow creases, just a little.

"You are unwell."

"I -"

"My mother called you for dinner." He places the plate on the side. "You failed to appear. My father was not present. I will not speak of it to him at this time, but it would be in your best interests to be prompt in the future."

Jim nods.

"After you are nourished," Spock continues, dispassionate. He is pointedly not looking at the bear. Jim retrieves it, quickly, and stuffs it back on the mat. "I would like to continue our game. Then, we shall rest. I have school in the morning, and you shall accompany me."

"Yes," Jim takes the plate. Green, sour, bitter. He eats it as Spock watches, impassive, his legs tightly crossed beside the chess set. 

Jim finishes with a hard swallow and sits down.

Spock shuffles closer, impatient.

Jim smiles weakly.

It's not Spock's fault.

His neck twinges as he drops his head to move his rook.

_ It isn't. _

Spock speaks in a slow drawl but Jim can barely listen, his ears ringing. He fixates on the ruby bulbs of his blood, slithering down his calves and drying between his toes.

Spock makes an involuntary noise.

Jim gazes at the board.

Stalemate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is titled "Spock."
> 
> "Wuh sa-kan tor koltha, sa-mekh. Tor au koltha t' nash-veh?"
> 
> The boy is frightened, father. Is he frightened of me?
> 
> "Au nam-tor ri wi veh k' etwel yut. Au tor nu'ri, spo' du, heh bolau tranush heh nahr, wuh latter ik du dang seek tor tanilau. Tor nash, heh du dungau ma wuh ha'kiv wu besu, u' ma nash-veh."
> 
> He is not yet one with our ways. He is young, like you, and needs patience and discipline, the latter which you should seek to provide. Do this, and you shall have a life long companion, as have I.


	4. Spock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim struggles in his new life, and at the same time, witnesses Spock's struggles as well.

Spock wakes Jim with a curt "attend, Ek-zer" and Jim has the awful notion that he may have to dress the boy ala Kuvak, but Spock is already awake and waiting in a black robe and high collar, a satchel on his back.

Jim scrambles awake, struggling into his robes. He dashes into the private wash area sat next to Spock's room, and barely has time to brush his teeth and comb his hair. Butler is tucked into the blanket, paw stuck up as in a wave, and as Spock downs the stairs, Jim waves sadly back.

A nervous Amanda reaches for Spock, who bypasses her without a glance. Jim sees how Spock's fingers are tight on his bag, his face pale and pulled with trying to keep calm.

Amanda catches Jim's shoulder as he follows.

"Ek-zer," She pleads, pushing a dry roll into his hands. "Please stay close to him."

Jim almost wants to say _I have no choice _but Amanda's smile is so sad and tender and Jim sighs, for she is the only human thing for miles, and he presses into her, just slightly, to feel the warmth of her (Spock is cold and dry, like the smooth side of a lizard.) 

"Sure," He nods, and even smiles a little with his aching cheeks. She kisses his forehead.

"Ek-zer!" Spock faces them, frowning. "The shuttle is here. Make haste."

Jim jogs after him, gnawing the roll in three fat bites.

Spock takes a deep breath, and enters, careful to show Jim by his side.

The low burr that passes for Vulcan chatter fades instantly.

Spock stands at the top of the bus. Jim peeks over his shoulder, and whistles between his teeth.

Identical lines of glossy heads fill every seat, dark robes and high collars like Tudor queens. They vary in height, but otherwise all share that same cold look, and every single one of those looks is posted on Spock.

Jim frowns.

Spock stands tall, his chin up and his eyes forward as he makes his way to the back of the bus, Jim a shadow on his step.

The other children begin to mutter, to slowly drag their attention between Spock and Jim. One of the boys, taller then the others with a snub nose and eyes like cobnuts, stands up as Spock tries to reach his seat.

Spock dutifully takes a step back. Jim does not.

"Spock." The boy has a voice like a computer. "Desist from taking this seat."

Spock's voice is stiff, governed impassivity.

"What is the logic in the action?"

"Your human DNA may infect this seat if you take it," The boy stabs back. "We wish to be free of infection, so we advise you to seat yourself at the back seats. This is for our health and comfort. Affirmative?"

"It is impossible for DNA, human or otherwise, to infect another living organism simply by sitting on a seat."

"It is possible that if you do not fulfil our request..." The boy takes one step closer. Jim reckons he is about thirteen at most, and ugly, by his reckoning. "...we will be justified in the use of physical stimulus to achieve your obedience."

Jim growls.

The tall boy seems to notice Jim for the first time.

"I see you have a pet, Spock," The boy adds. His lips are curled just slightly, a lessening of muscle that could be a smirk in anything but name. "Why, it even generates the same primitive sounds."

"That's me," Jim snaps. Spock starts. Whispers fly back and forth among the other children. "Wanna see if I bite or not?"

A warning in Vulcanian shatters the tension. An adult has appeared on the shuttle, a sleek length of authority if Jim ever saw one, and the boy bows his head, and with a long, dark look at Jim, retakes his seat.

Spock says nothing. He takes the seat he was initially refused and Jim slips in after him. 

* * *

The main school is situated in the centre of what Jim nicknames "the spiky city." The streets are polished sandstone and the buildings, golden brown, arch toward the sky. The city is mapped out in a grid. Perfect for logical creatures, Jim thinks.

The doors hiss open and the children descend. Jim follows, keeping an eye out for the older boy, but the bully has stepped ahead with his other gormless friends and Jim makes a note of his face, and maybe how his fist would look in the centre of it.

"Ek-zer." Spock is unable to hide his misery. "You will not be with me during my lessons."

"Why not?" 

"You are not advanced enough for that level of instruction, Ek-zer." Jim hears a familiar voice. His temple prickles and he shudders, turning on his heel to glance up at Sonak.

"Hello," he says sharply.

Sonak raises an eyebrow.

"Is that how we greet each other on Vulcan, Ek-zer?"

Jim raises his right hand in the Vulcan greeting, resisting the urge to flip the bird.

"There are bullies on that shuttle," He says, surprised at how angry he is. Spock turns his head slightly but says nothing. "They were being nasty because Spock's mother is human."

"Ek-zer." Spock shakes his head. "That is not your concern."

"I might make it my concern, Spock."

"Ek-zer," Sonak, bemused, clucks his tongue. "Allow Spock to attend his lessons. You are to come with me to continue your education. You must report back to Spock at the recreation hour." He repeats the salute to Spock, who mimics it perfectly. "Good health, Spock."

Spock, with a final glance at Jim, turns on his shiny heels and follows the cloud of robes and collars through the doors.

Jim watches over him, chewing his lower lip.

"Ek-zer." Sonak is already walking away. "This way, if you please."

Jim's yellow sticks out crassly amongst the muted hordes. There are children between ten to sixteen, and from what he can see, girls and boys are divided into separate groups. Nyota would hate that.

_ It doesn't matter, Ny. _He consoles her in his head. _They all wear ugly robes and they all stare. _

He catches the eye of a Vulcan girl, the same age as Spock. She watches him, intrigued. 

_ No-one is as pretty as you. _

Sonak ushers Jim into a side building, past elder Vulcans (Jim searches their faces, his chest tight, but Kuvak is not among them) and directly into a lift. They begin to descend, flat lights signalling the running down of the floors.

"You are distressed, Ek-zer," Sonak says. Jim does not reply and shuffles his feet. The same fresco he saw in the spaceport is etched into the floor. He plants his sandals directly over the large planet of Vulcan. "Might I ask why?"

"Why do you care?"

"Your wellbeing is my responsibility." Sonak lays his hand on his tricorder. "I will your assigned caseworker until you reach maturity, and as of now, your teacher."

"I didn't know that. I thought I belonged to Spock."

"You do." Sonak relaxes. "It is gratifying to hear you accept it so readily."

Jim's cheeks begin to burn. 

"You say I do," He corrects him. "But I belong to nobody but myself. But you already know that, don't you, Sonak? You had to know it when you stuck your hand in my brain."

Sonak, rigid, folds his hands on his lap.

"It was a pivotal moment," he explains, gentle. "There could have been no hesitation. If I had not intervened, Kuvak would have stepped forward. It would have been humiliating for you."

"They put a collar on me like I was a dog." Jim fondles the necklace. He catches sight of himself in the reflection of the chrome wall. Nine months on greens, and gone are the chubby jowls Ma thought was so cute. He's thin and haggard and burnt on his face and shoulders.

"How can I be any more humiliated?"

"You have a fascinating mind, Ek-zer," The doors part open. "You have altered since your arrival on the educational ship. I look forward to seeing your development and how, eventually, you will integrate into our civilisation. I believe you will be an asset."

"To Spock."

"To yourself, as well." He paces forward. Jim jogs to keep up. "There are many opportunities within our world, Ek-zer. You must not squander a single one. What you wear on your neck is no humiliation. It is a singular honour."

_ Gee, _Jim thinks, focusing on the gleam of Sonak's shoes. _I wonder where I have heard that before? _

* * *

The underground classroom seems to be cultivated from the stone itself. A learning bowl is sculpted into the centre of the floor. Machines and PaDDs contribute a percussion of beeps and whirrings.

Settled in the corner is a 3D model of a human Starship. Shying away his audible gasp, Jim bounces over, itching to take a proper look. 

Sonak stands by the bowl, keying in the lessons.

"You are excited by space travel?"

"Yes!" Jim beams. "I read all about them at home. My Pa, he..."

"I am aware of your father's proclivities," Sonak steps up beside him. He gestures to the Starship. "Was this your ultimate goal prior your reeducation?"

Jim strokes the round base of the ship with his thumb.

"It still is my goal," He says, offhand.

"Intriguing," Sonak has a habit of standing a little too close. "I, myself, have been drafted on a ship, as Science Officer."

Jim's hand stutters, despite himself.

"Really?" He tries to sound casual. "What kind of mission was it?"

"A discovery mission."

"What kind of things did you discover?"

"Later, Ek-zer." Sonak stalks to the centre of the room. "Now, you must have your lessons."

Jim, feeling a little more than taken for granted, shoots the model one final longing look and slides down into the bowl, with a quiet _yee haw. _ Sonak stands above him with no comment and Jim feels stupidly vulnerable at how small he feels.

"Are they extra slow for a silly little human like me?"

"Hardly." Sonak places his hand on the controls. "I do not expect to be disappointed, Ek-zer."

He presses a button and the world warps into colour. 

* * *

The scathing daylight burns Jim after the enclosed chill of the underground classroom. His head throbs and his throat twinges from talking, and the pull of connecting his brain and tongue through the onslaught of questions has left him exhausted. At first, he had struggled, stumbling over his words and losing his speed, until a fierce, competitive click in his brain came to life.

He was not some _stupid _human and he was going to prove it, to Sonak, to Sarek, to that bastard Kuvak...!

Not to Spock.

"Most impressive, Ek-zer." Sonak had pushed the trembling, overwhelmed boy back out into the courtyard. "Attend Spock for his lunch hour. Then, you shall return here."

_ Attend Spock. _It's a big courtyard, and as far as Jim can see, swarming with Vulcans of all shapes and sizes.

Jim stands in the mess of it all and tugs at his robe. For a moment, he eyes the high gates, the smooth roads trailing off into the desert, and then, spies the guards, watching by the main entrance.

He wanders until he sees a familiar shape huddled beneath a tree in the botanical gardens.

Spock pokes at his PaDD with his pen. He has the folded up posture of someone trying to be unseen. His lunchbox sits beside him, untouched.

"Hey!" Spock looks up over his PaDD. Jim sits down beside him. "How was your morning?"

"As to be expected," Spock replies, shuffling over to grant Jim more room. "How was your learning session?"

Jim pulls a face.

"Long." He steals a glance at Spock's PaDD. "Hard. But I think Sonak was pleased. I think I convinced him I wasn't such another dumb human."

"Negative." Spock shakes your head. "You are a formidable opponent in chess. This implies a higher intelligence than that of my peers."

Jim grins.

"You play them at chess?"

Spock looks down.

"They do not wish to challenge me."

Jim blinks.

"Why is that? Because you'll beat them?"

Spock picks up his PaDD pen.

"I do not..."

"Because you're half-human?" 

"Affirmative."

Jim watches him pick at his PaDD.

"Do you know?" says Jim, shuffles. "That they have a model of a starship in my classroom?"

Spock places down his PaDD.

"What designation?"

"I couldn't see. It was so old the paint had flaked off." Jim eyes the PaDD. "Can I borrow that? I 'll sketch it so you can see."

Spock, bemused, hands the PaDD over. Jim smiles and pinches the pen from Spock's fingers, twirling it playfully. He has seen his fair share of starships, in Dad's stories and his countless books. To draw out the starship is like being back home, sketching away in his Country Bear pad, head in the clouds (or the stars, more like.)

He goes to speak before he pauses. But Spock isn't waiting patiently for him to stop talking. If anything, he looks intent, almost hopeful.

"I want to be a Starship Captain," Jim says proudly. "And travel beyond the stars, and see new places and discover new things. Can you imagine how cool that would be?"

Spock inspects the drawing. 

"An Enterprise Model," He says."NC-0177. A prototype, warp factor engine 5." 

Jim excitedly hands him the pen.

"Write that down," Jim offers. "So we don't forget."

Spock raises an eyebrow.

"I am incapable of forgetting anything.'

"That is convenient. But maybe write it for me, yeah?" Spock takes the pen gingerly from Jim. "So it could be our ship."

Spock writes it down, before pausing.

"We do not own a ..."

"Well, we can pretend, can't we?" Jim tries to ease the desperation in his tone. "C'mon, Spock. You can uh...speculate, right?"

Spock gazes down at the PaDD. His thumb brushes against the name of their ship.

"I believe myself capable of that."

"So?" Jim smiles. "Would you want to be a starship captain?"

Spock traces his finger around the linework of their ship.

"I do not think so," He says thoughtfully, quieter, even hesitant. "I wouldn't want to command. I would want to study."

"Like a Science Officer?" Jim volunteers, his mind full of Sonak.

"Exactly." Spock straightens up as if reporting for duty. "I would collect samples from different planets and study the environment, the soils, the life forms." He pauses, then adds, shyly; "As a science officer, I would be your second in command."

"Yes!" Jim nods. "We could search the galaxy, you and I. But we'll be equals," He stresses, patting Spock's wrist. _ Yes, equals. _ "We would make a good team, you know."

The sun casts through the trees, shining strangely on Spock's face. The hot light glimmers in his eyes, the most human part of him, and Jim grins, holding the PaDD up between them, like a secret.

A shadow falls across their laps.

It's the older boy from the bus, accompanied by his two friends.

"Spock!" He declares, monotonous. "I have arrived to resume my insults."

"Stonn." Spock arranges his hands in his lap. "I am preoccupied. Take your insults elsewhere."

"Negative." He steps closer, hanging over the two of them. Jim goes still. "You are not occupied, for nothing you attempt is worth any occupation."

"You are weak and have no place among us," says the boy to Stonn's right. His eyes are bigger, his face rounder, but there is nothing cute about the tongue in his vile head. "As a human, your blood is contaminated."

"He is half-human, Chu'lak," corrects the other pointy little bastard. "He must not alter the facts. His father was unable to keep his perversions in check. No mental nor physical discipline was enough to purge his primitive urges. In conclusion, he is a regressive compared to the rest of our upstanding Vulcan society."

Spock hangs onto the PaDD until his fingers pale, focusing on the sketch of their ship like he wishes he could disappear inside it.

"For the interest of study," Stonn coils his hands into fists. "I believe we should experiment. By the usage of physical stimuli, we can gauge his emotional reaction and therefore we shall see how thin his Vulcan blood is, and on that merit, calculate his worth as a Vulcan."

He scoops down his hand to grab at Spock's collar. 

He finds Jim's hand instead.

The three boys suck in a microscopic breath.

Jim rises, very slowly, crushing down on the bully's hand, blocking Spock from view.

"Hey, Stonn," He says, cheerfully. "Anyone tell you that you look like a cucumber with ears?"

"Desist, human." Stonn hisses from the corner of his mouth. "Do not attempt to intrude...'

"Vulcans are not emotional, right?" Jim shoves him back. It takes all his clout, but he's got enough of that. Minus his recent malnutrition, he's still a stocky Iowa farmboy. Stonn trips into his back up singers, who are all stretched eyes and hanging mouths. Very logical. "So why are your little minions sticking your nose up like a bunch of old ladies, huh? Being so shitty? I bet my bottom dollar that's an emotion."

Spock gasps.

The red sky flies above and he lands on his back, clashing his head against the bark, hot fever pain exploding behind his eyes. Spock springs to his feet, his lip trembling, his hands darting nervously around Jim's face. 

Jim pushes himself up, wiping the blood from his nose, eyes on fire. He steadies himself on Spock.

"Would you see that, my fellows?" Stonn is smug and awful. "He cannot even control his pe -"

Jim feels cartilage _crack_ beneath his knuckles and Stonn howls and trips onto the grass, cradling his face.

"No worries!" Jim shouts. "You'll be better lookin' now, mister!"

Two scrappy bodies bowl into him. Jim ducks and snatches his leg under the baby faced bigot, sending him sprawling. The other boy grabs his collar, throwing him against the tree. Jim smacks his fist against his jaw but the Vulcan's eyes are burst with adrenaline, with hatred. He raises his fist and Jim sticks out his chin, daring him.

Spock's aim is flawless and lethal and doubles the boy over.

Jim lets out a sharp, triumphant laugh.

** "Ra tor nash?" **

An Elder stands in the swinging shade of the tree, gown flared out in a dark satin cloud. The bullies straighten themselves up, and without a word, quickly retreat.

Blood runs into Jim's mouth. His lip is split, his head heavy with pain, but he wipes his chin and turns to Spock, who just stands there, gripping his PaDD, shaking.

"Are you okay?" He asks, low. The Elder remains; Jim wishes he could take himself and his tacky eyebrows for a hike.

Spock lifts his gaze. 

"I am acceptable. But you should have not done that."

The Elder steps closer. Jim pointedly ignores him.

"Do they do that all the time, Spock?"

Spock's pupils flicker to the Elder.

"Affirmative," He whispers. 

"Spock, sa-fu t' Sarek," The Elder looms closer. Agitation curls in Jim's belly, and it wears Kuvak's face. "Danau wuh kloshai t' ish-veh gol'nevsu."

"Au istau tor fosh nash-veh," Spock answers, respectful. "Au tor komihn heh veling resha. Au nam-tor wi tor oren-tor etwel nahr."

The Elder Vulcan seems to drink all of him in the gulp of his stare. His red blood, his sandy hair and skin. Jim strains his ears to understand, but the Elder's tone, as dead as it is, is not unkind, at least to Spock.

"Ah. Duhik na' wuh Vuhlkansu, hi wuh yauluhk noshtra na' wuh komihn." He nods slowly at Spock. "Svi' wak, au dungau taluhk na' du, Spock."

Spock bows his head. Jim gazes warily at him, and closes into the side of Spock, as he knows he is meant to. As the blood dries on his lip, his chest begins to hurt. Not from the pain of Stonn's blow, but by the pride visible in Spock, and the approval (and disapproval) of the Elder. He feels small and tired and quite used.

"Au dungau oren-tor, svi' wak." The Elder raises his hand in the salute. "Nash-veh dungi ma tor var-tor ish-veh Sa-mekh."

Spock mirrors it.

"I understand." He looks pointedly at Jim, who repeats the salute without prompt. "Thank you, Elder Skos."

"Affirmative." In English, the Elder's voice scratches with age. "Return to your lessons now, Spock."

"Yes, Elder." Spock collects his PaDD and lunchbox. Jim sees him press the "save" button on the image of their Starship. "Peace and long life."

Skos retreats back into the shade of the trees. He sits and closes his eyes, tilting his face toward the sky.

"A colleague of my father's," Spock explains. 

"I guessed." A bell knells. As if by clockwork, the other kids rise and start making their way back to the doors. Spock gathers his things. Jim, panicked, grabs his arm. "Are you going back to lessons now?"

Spock nods.

"You must return to Sovak." And then, gently, as if soothing a frightened animal; "I shall be back soon, Ek-zer."

Jim almost wants to retort _ I'm fine, you know _but he realises he isn't. He feels shaky and strange as if the floor is being forced out from under his feet.

Jim doesn't need that. He doesn't need the cover of another body, especially not a Vulcan, half-human or not. He's fine.

So he steers himself back to the courtyard, wiping the blood off his face. The heat surges in the middle of the day and by the time he reaches the sweatless spectre of Sovak, he's breathing hard and hungry.

Sovak's brow reaches his perfect hairline.

"You are injured."

"I was helping Spock." Jim is desperate to get into the elevator, to glide down to the cool classroom. "Being a good aide."

Sonak says nothing. 

As they reenter the classroom, Sonak gestures for Jim to sit. A bowl of soup and a roll has been left for him. Jim eats, trembling, as Sonak runs a scanner over his face, lessening the bruising, but not enough that Jim won't feel the pain after.

It feels like yet another lesson.

* * *

The long sky withers into the black night, red to port purple. Spock sits beside Jim, his satchel on his knees. Jim's head thumps with the ache of Stonn's blow, but maybe he hadn't had it as bad as Stonn. He hadn't seen the boy re-enter the shuttle, nor in the big marble halls that made up the classrooms.

He was pretty sure he'd broken the cucumber's nose.

The doors hiss open. They are the last children on the bus. As if poor Spock could get any less lonely.

"Maybe," Jim whispers. "We don't say anything to your Ma?"

Spock nods. He slides his hand into Jim's, making the other boy flinch. Spock's grip borders on painful.

"That is a logical course of action," he says. He stands up, and Jim follows, their hands still clasped. That same electricity tingles the hair on Jim's arms. As if in a dream, he gets a strange sense, of excitement and sadness, and possessive contentment, warm between their palms. Spock repeats himself; "You should have not done it."

"They were being hateful."

"I am used to it.'

"You shouldn't have to be."

"Ek-zer..."

"I'm not afraid to make it so," Jim demands. "I'm supposed to be your aide, aren't I?"

They step off the shuttle.

Spock presses close, just a little. The feelings, all their tear and torture, become almost overwhelming. Jim shivers.

"You are," Spock says, breathy. His lips keen in the smallest smile Jim has ever seen. "I am gratified to have had you chosen for me."

Jim stares at him, expressionless. The stars begin to prick the sky with a brightness he has only seen in fairytales. There is no moon on Vulcan, but the stars bud and flower-like lanterns and flood the landscape in silver.

Jim lightly lets go of his hand.

"Spock!" Amanda waves from the doorway. She had seen them leave the shuttle, had spied their joined hands. Delight and relief match on her face. "How was your day?"

Spock accepts a kiss on his forehead. Jim resists the desire to offer his cheek.

"Gratifying, Mother," he answers. "Ek-zer did not stray."

Jim gets a kiss for his trouble. He doesn't know when or how that will ever stop him wanting to cry.

"Wonderful," she nods. "Spock, your father has left you new educational items upstairs. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Affirmative?"

"Affirmative," Spock parrots. He turns on his heels, and as if he has been saying it his entire life, adds; "Ek-zer, attend."

There is an unquestioned pride in it.

As Jim goes to follow, Amanda pushes a pear like fruit in his hand.

"They sometimes forget we need to eat more frequently than them," she whispers.

"Thank you."

Her eyes crinkle. She is very pretty and very strange.

"You are welcome, Ek-zer." She ushers him gently, her gaze lingering on Jim's bruises, but she doesn't say a word. She could even be satisfied at the sight of them."Now go. You are needed."

Jim, munching the pear, follows Spock up the stairs.

The bedroom is full of boxes. A new learning centre, a miniature holodeck that projects multiple galaxies, a PaDD programmed with literature.

It must be the Vulcan equivalent of games, Jim thinks. He is dazzled. Spock, trying to mute his visible excitement, slowly unpackages and explores each gift. Jim scooches over to him, peering over his shoulder, eyeing each discovery and he spots, best of all, a ship simulator.

"Spock!" Jim jumps from each item to the next. "This is amazing!"

"It is beneficial to our learning, yes." Spock sits, a puzzle in front of him. To Jim, it looks like a tangle of wires, like a cat cradle and a Rubix cube had a baby. "Father sees a benefit to it."

Jim shuffles closer to the flight simulator.

"You know, Spock," he murmurs. "We could pre - speculate that this was our ship."

Spock looks up.

"You favour that educational tool."

"What gave you that idea?"

Spock quirks his brow.

"You immediately showed an affinity for it."

"I know, I know!" Jim waves his hands. "I was only joking."

"Joking is not..."

"Oh c'mon. Vulcans must joke somehow." Jim already starts assembling the kit. Spock lies his puzzle aside and sits next to him. "I mean, after all, you only have to look at Stonn's face, right?"

Spock tenses at Stonn's mention, before he searches Jim's expression, and he raises an eyebrow, bemused (it's a start, Jim thinks wearily.)

* * *

Like exploring a new language, Spock starts slow as they play, wavering, as if he's taking an exam.

It doesn't take long for that to fade.

The other games and toys left by Sarek become extensions of their ship. The geology kit becomes soil samples left by alien species, poisonous to all so Spock must first wear gloves and "decontaminate" Jim and himself with a special spray. The confusing puzzle put aside by Spock is identified as a genome they need to rearrange to save the life of a pacifistic bear species (Butler, propped up on the pillow beside Jim.)

The simulator projects a bridge and viewing screen that comes equipped with helm and navigation (Jim on the former, Spock on the latter.)

Halfway through their missions, Spock smiles with his eyes like Christmas sherry, and Jim, for a small time, manages to _ forget _ and it is heavenly, for time to pass so kind and easy and Spock doesn't use his name, either of them, just a neutral _Commander _until Jim is grinning brightly at him.

A knock on the door.

Their private world dissolves and Jim returns to his mat, snatching Butler off Spock's bed and hiding him under his pillow.

The doors hiss open and Sarek glides in.

"Spock," He stands above his son. "I met with Elder Skol today."

Jim slips his hand under the pillow to wiggle Butler's foot. He wonders how often Sarek addresses Spock in English; he has the horrid notion he's doing it for him.

Thankfully, they lapse into Vulcanian and Jim waits, hungry and tired and dreading.

"Ek-zer." Sarek. Typical. "Come here."

Jim glances at Spock, at Sarek, at their mirrored impassivity. Getting to his feet, he obeys.

A thumb brushes against his swollen lip and Jim winces, jerking his head away.

Sarek straightens up.

"You were violent today."

Jim trails his eyes to Spock, who gazes back, irises no longer sunny like sweet brandy but black, impregnable.

Jim sighs.

"Yes."

"Why?"

_ You know why, bastard. _

"The other kids were being cruel to Spock."

"So, you believe your actions were justified?"

"Yes."

"I see."

Jim waits. He refuses to look down any longer. Instead, he stares up, at the cold of Sarek's eyes. Sarek looks neither disappointed or disapproving.

"It is not recommended," Sarek says. "To repeat such an action. However..." He continues. "...such actions were taken in an attempt, however misguided, to protect Spock."

Jim just wants to sink into the floor.

"So," For a so-called private species, Vulcans have the nasty habit of not shutting up. "I will concede that is a development in your acceptance of your new role, Ek-zer, no matter how clumsily _ human _ they were."

Human.

Jim twitches.

"I am human," He mutters. "I can't help how I was born."

Spock's tiny gasp implies he is not in the habit of talking back. Jim is. He and his Dad actually could have conversations.

_ Dad, I miss you. Come get me soon. _

"Indeed." Sarek presses a powerful finger to Jim's collar. "But do not forget, Ek-zer, that you have experienced another birth since you were chosen for my son. As a citizen of Vulcan, you will act accordingly with our rules. One of the traits we can take productive advantage of is the human ability to adapt. You can adapt, Ek-zer, and you will."

It's like a staring match with a statue. Jim drops his head and nods.

With a final look at Spock, Sarek leaves, just as Amanda calls up for dinner.

"Coming, Mother." Spock follows before he addresses Jim; "Come, Ek-zer. You are to eat with me tonight."

* * *

"Repeat after me." Sonak paces in front of Jim. "This is a saying crucial to our core teachings, and therefore, to you as well."

Jim's handle of the Vulcan language is sluggish. He understands more if he listens, and his reading is alright, but trying to coax the alien sounds from his tongue is almost painful.

"Wuh bolau t' wuh wehk spunsau wuh bolau t' wuh zamu." Jim repeats. The saying will be incised into his head. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

"Good." Sonak records his progress on his PaDD. "You are making significant strides, Ek-zer, although I still believe you hold back, unnecessarily."

"And why would I do that?"

"Human prejudices," He says, offhand.

Jim picks up his pencil and twirls it.

"Do you have a human, Sonak?"

"I do not have an aide, no."

"Why?"

Sonak puts down his PaDD.

"I have no use for one."

He rises and crosses to the starship to the corner. Jim watches after him, pondering.

"Why do Vulcans need aides, anyway?"

Slowly, Sonak starts to set up the chessboard. It is the only recreational game he allows them to play. Jim wonders why he has not told Spock about the nature of Sonak's lessons, although he knows Spock wonders. Two months have passed and he hasn't asked once. Jim does not volunteer the information. 

"I believe this was covered in your lessons." Sonak takes the white, Jim the black. "Is your memory flawed?"

"No." Jim struggles onto the high seat. "I want to hear it from you."

Sonak lifts an eyebrow. A common Vulcan trait, Jim thinks.

"We initiated contact with Earth." He plays his pawn. "We observed the patterns of behaviour and discovered that, under duress, they could be problematic. So, we issued a high command. Humanity was not ready to progress so quickly and so we enforced a regulation that stalled offensively affirmative action. Even with just a century of running water, humanity wished to experience space travel. They were not ready."

"There was a rebellion," Jim says, gazing dolefully at the starship. "It wasn't just space travel. It was more than that. Public life? Like telling people not to do certain things? That's what Dad said..."

"Your father was a dangerous radical." The coldness of Sonak's tone arrests Jim. Sonak has never spoken to him so harshly. He wilts, a little, sadness and shame replacing his customary anger. (_ No, _ he thinks quickly. _ No shame. What have you to be ashamed of? _) "He would have told lies designed to poison your potential. You must give no credence to what he said, Ek-zer. You are wiser than this."

The desire to bite back, to defend his Pa and Ma and his stolen life haul up like bile in his throat, but he peddles back. _ No _. He needs to hear from Sonak why there are aides in the first place. To know why he is here, to see if it can all be undone somehow.

"As I was clarifying," Sonak relaxes, resting his hands on the board. "There was an uprising. A protest to expel our influence from Earth. To become independent, I believe the phrasing was. What humans do not realise is that such a desire would lead to self-gratification, progress without limits, and power they would be ill-equipped to handle. This, as well as their numerosity, made them dangerous. We had no choice but to intervene for the benefit of all."

That wasn't the story Jim heard, of peaceful protests torn asunder by "non-lethal" force, of words like diversity and progress beaten down by _ safety, security, stalled. _He couldn't remember all the details, only that his Dad and Mom spoke angrily in the night of friends gone missing, of memory loss, of places they couldn't go and things they couldn't say.

"But why take us?" Jim whispers. "Why take the children? Scotty said..."

"Who is Scotty?"

"One of the children..."

"You are referring to Falor."

Jim's brow darkens.

"He said..." Jim declares, with his touch of cold. "...that it was so we couldn't learn things from our parents."

"Affirmative." Sonak moves his pawn again; Jim turns his rook away, to protect his Queen. "Your parents were radicals, Ek-zer. We remove the children from these infective environments and place them within our society, for education and a life in service."

"But why..."

"The aides are provided with a superior way of life." Sonak takes his pawn. "And as an example."

Jim looks up.

"An example?"

Sonak does not reply.

"Checkmate, Ek-zer."

* * *

The scariest thing is the routine because as the weeks pass, Jim gets used to it. He wakes at the right time, washes and prepares the night before, knows exactly how to brush his hair and put on his clean robes, and that _terrifies _him.

The four day school week for Spock, then his homework in the evenings between their games, and then, his tutors and duties at home. Jim, with only Sonak and Spock for company, feels his mind become hungry for something that isn't base data. He shifts through Spock's books and belongings, searching for stories to feed the restlessness in his head. He asks Amanda if there is any literature. He doesn't say human, but the word hangs between them none the less and she leaves with no reply and he thinks she's slipped off into one of her strange, sulking silences until she returns with a PaDD full of old earth stories and her finger pressed to her lips.

Alice in Wonderland is his favourite, for he can relate to this entire world full of nonsense and nothing else, where up is down and children can be taken away from parents and if you dare to ask why there's an entire litany of reasons, so carefully and purposefully prepared.

The one thing he enjoys, more than anything, are the games Spock and he play in the dark evenings. It takes him beyond where he is and what he is, throwing him in the imagination of distant stars. The bedroom, the garden, the stairs become the canvas for their exploits. They plan a non-existent future together, huddled under blankets and bushes, and at that time, it is almost like having a brother again.

* * *

"Sonak, do Vulcans have birthdays?"

"Ek-zer, pay attention." Sonak holds court in the centre of the classroom. A fold of robes is sat on the chair. Jim pulls a face. "It is imperative an aide knows how to apply ceremonial dress. It is a part of the old tradition."

"I know that," Jim sinks under the weight of the fabric. "But I don't see how this opens up an opportunity for me."

"Domestic work is constant. A beginning, not an end." He opens his arms. "Attend me."

"Yes, your highness," Jim quips, running the sash around Sonak's unnaturally thin waist. He gives it a swift tug. Sonak squeaks with the pressure; Jim fights back a giggle. 

"Sarcasm is hardly a fitting tone for an aide," Sonak says as Jim hides his smirk in his arm. "But aside from that, your attempt is adequate. Again."

Jim repeats the process three times. Sonak takes an audible breath whenever Jim fastens the knot. 

"Ek-zer," Sonak, relieved, removes the robe. "I may now answer your question. We do not take note of birthing days, and certainly, do not celebrate it. Why do you enquire?"

"Well..." Jim smiles. "...today is my birthday. I'm ten."

Sonak raises an eyebrow.

"I see. Your logs will be updated accordingly."

Jim shrugs, a little helpless.

"I know. You don't miss anything like that."

"We are incapable of it."

Sonak returns to his desk, indifferent. Jim's laughter soon transitions to silent tears, trying to hurl them back into his throat. Sonak waits but does not comment. For that, Jim is grateful. It could almost be a kindness.

When he arrives home with Spock that night, he finds a little earth cupcake on his pillow.

He cries and Spock doesn't understand, and that in itself is almost a cruelty.

* * *

Between the days he spends trailing Spock to his lessons, his instructions via the marble bowl with the holographic lessons, and the games and missions that fill up the nights until Jim is hazy with it, the little drawer beneath his clothes is the only thing he can touch and hold that is _his. _

Propping Butler beside him, he fishes his hand into the bottom of the drawer, to feel for the circular shape of Nyota's earring. He never liked jewellery much but the green is the colour of the moss that would sprout under the barns in the summer. Ma would sigh and swear and scrape it away with a trowel.

Jim pulls out the crumpled letters with Nyota's kisses and Scotty's well wishes. His logbook, full of old lessons and his name scrawled over the clumsy attempts at Vulcanian, is the keeping place for his little piece of the world. Gently, he shifts it aside and reaches for the bottom.

The tiny bag he keeps the earring in is there, folded so small and neat. It's empty.

Jim freezes.

Everything in his drawer is too well ordered, too keenly and closely put back together.

Jim's heart starts to beat in his chest.

He tears through his clothes. He upturns the mat and pillow and dives under Spock's bed, feeling nothing but dust. He even prods the soft, sunken tummy of Butler. 

It's lost.

The one thing Ny had given him, the most precious thing she owned, and she'd shared it, and it was -

Gone.

Tears begin to swell and squeeze out the corners of Jim's eyes. Grabbing Butler, he wraps his arms around the little bear so tight he fears he'll take apart the stuffing.

He hears Sarek shifting about downstairs, the casual burr as he converses with his wife. 

They won't care.

Nobody does.

Except -

Jim blinks.

No.

He gets to his feet. Calmly, he lies Butler on the mat, even as his legs tremble.

* * *

The thick, thorny bushes stretch away from the house, palm leaves and heavy flowers, backed by the high walls that cut off the desert and the prowling creatures. The enormous clay bowl that stands as a water feature trickles with a deceiving calm.

The gravity of the air crumbles Jim's bones, but he doesn't care. Spock isn't meditating. He might look like it, but there's a twitch in his eye, a convulsion in his leg. If he was a cat, his ear would twitch.

Jim strides in front of him.

He waits.

Lizard birds flock and screech in the branches above.

Spock opens his eyes.

"Ek-zer," he says, almost innocently. "I do not call for you."

"Didn't you?" Jim drops the little bag by Spock's feet. "Where is it?"

Spock looks at the bag, then impassively, up at Jim.

"Are you accusing me of theft, Ek-zer?" His father's tone, pitch-perfect. "That is not acceptable behaviour for an aide."

Jim's face falls. 

"Spock," He won't plead, he'll ask. "Please. The green earring. It's all I have left of earth."

Spock blinks at him. Jim wonders, for one mad moment, if he has just lost it. Vulcan's can't lie. And Spock -

Spock isn't saying anything.

He stands, brushes down his robes, and starts making his way across the grass.

"Spock!" Jim jogs after him. He chews his lower lip. "You haven't seen it, have you?"

Spock turns back to him.

"Specify."

"I had something." He knows he is forbidden to keep anything of earth. But he has to try. Spock is half-human. Spock is his _ friend _. "It was small and green."

Spock puts his hands behind his back. 

"If it was so very small and non-specific," He says. "Then I can assume you have lost it."

"I couldn't lose it!" Jim calls. The birds scatter above. Jim winces and glances at the empty window of the house. "It was too special for that."

Spock stands very, very still.

"The object reminds you of earth." His tone is flat, almost angry. He glowers at his shoes, unable to meet Jim's eye. "You are to have no memories of earth. If you miss them, then you may want to leave. I don't want that."

Jim stares at him.

"You do have it!" He gasps. "You went into my stuff and stole it!"

Spock stiffens.

"Negative," He chokes out. "It is impossible to steal from one in service. What may belong to you also belongs to me." He stops, then adds, visibly ashamed; "I let you interact with my games."

"That's not the same as me taking them!" Jim's panic is distressing Spock. The usually composed boy is rubbing his hands, looking to and fro, as if for an escape. Jim cannot bear it. "You know I was stolen, right? That I don't want to be here?"

Spock's eyes grow huge.

"That is a lie, Ek-zer," He whispers. "Do not lie to me. I find that highly insulting."

"I'm not lying," Jim hisses. "For the first time in months, Spock, I am telling the truth!"

Spock's lower lip trembles.

He pulls the earring from his robes.

"I knew that an earthly possession would rouse disruptive behaviour," He intones, flawlessly logical. "So I will..."

Spock's hand is up, empty. 

Jim has ripped it from his grasp. 

"You're just like the others!" Jim shrieks. The words claw through his gut and spatter into the air. For a mad moment, he doesn't care if he's heard. "All of you are wicked and I hate, hate _hate _ you!"

He storms away. His feet slow the further he strides; he glances back, worried. But Spock is gone.

Jim kneels on the stone paving and fumes. He holds up the green hoop to the sky. It isn't cracked, and the clasp is bent, not damaged. With a sniff, Jim curls it back into his palm.

His words had lacerated the air. He can still sense the sting of them on his tongue.

Jim begins to feel sick with dread.

If Sarek -

Jim retreads his steps.

The little Vulcan is sat down by the tree. His skinny legs stick out, his funny boots curled up at the ends like the Christmas elves in his storybook. Tears roll fat down his cheeks. It's weird, Jim thinks, like a crying statue.

Spock sniffs. His nose doesn't run, and he doesn't sweat. He's not like a normal boy at all, but out of his mouth comes a blunt, ugly noise. Jim knows what it is. It's not unlike the noise Sam used to make when he was almost crying but didn't want to. Jim fidgets and looks back at the dull, desert house.

"Stop crying," he says, quietly. "Come on, I didn't mean it."

It was a lie. He did.

Spock squints at him, lip quivering. His emotion is like a toy with the batteries half dead. 

Jim sits next to him, knees under his chin. It's so hot here. He hates the robes. He can't run or play in them. He sneaks a look at Spock's robes, at his stupid shoes. Maybe he can't run or play in that shit either. Maybe he's just as hot, as bored and lonely.

The thought is even weirder than Spock's tears.

Spock's face begins to crease; Jim winces. He doesn't want Sarek to think he made Spock cry.

"Don't cry," he tries again. When he was sad, Sam would put a rough arm around him. Jim glances at the bony bower of Spock's shoulders and creeps his arm open as an invitation.

Spock seizes up, suddenly, before it is as a mask has been ripped away and he coils around him like a snake, greedily taking the comfort.

Jim wonders how long they can stay like this. After an hour, his arm begins to cramp, and the heat makes him sleepy, sticky.

In the end, he falls asleep, his cheek lain on the lustrous dome of Spock's head.

* * *

Amanda is pleased, Jim can tell. He wishes he could like her, but he doesn't think he can like anyone who lets themselves be treated so poorly. But he guesses she is kind and frail in a way his stocky, strong mouthed mother ever was. She finds them in the light dusk and wakes them gently with water for Jim and a thick, green juice for Spock. Spock sleepily rises, taking his drink with a steely "thank you, Mother" and as if nothing had changed, makes his steady way to the house. The wife turns away and Jim falls into her dress, burying his face into her soft stomach. She freezes. Her eyes jump to the oblivious back of her son and the empty windows of the house.

"I'm Jim," he sniffs. "My name is Jim. I miss my Mom."

He's given up wanting. He just misses now, deep and pitiful and a choke on his body. Misses chickens clucking on early hazy mornings, chocolate milk lukewarm in the summer heat, big arms and gapped teeth and baked apple in an old beaten saucepan. 

She prises away his hands. Jim starts to cry. He's sick of being a man. He wants to be a kid. He wants tears and comfort and his parents, and he can have none of these things.

"Stop crying," Her voice is a croak. Ill used, hushed as if fighting off the flu. She cuddles him hard, her body shielding Jim from the house. "Please stop. You're fed and watered. You're safe here. You're safe."

Mom had said all mothers had mantras. He had to ask what she meant. Mama had said it was something someone said over and over until they believed it. This wasn't a mother's mantra; it was hers. She'd been taught it until she believed it, and now, it was what she used for comfort, for him.

Jim peels back and looks up at her, feeling very sad and not knowing why. She smiles at that and ruffles his hair with her shaking hands.

They walk back to the house hand in hand and Spock waits at the dinner table.

"I must study now," he tells Jim, every bit as hard as his father. "Amuse yourself."

The bedroom door closes like a thunder crack and Jim is left alone in the kitchen.

* * *

He runs. It makes sense to run, he tells himself. He's here and he doesn't want to be here.

The boy catches him. It's not really a boy, although the hybrid is young and spoilt and stares at him with a cold face and seething eyes.

“You ran from me.” He says. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

“I do what I like,” Jim says. His name is Jim, he will not forget it. He won't let the older Vulcans press into his brain and arrange it like a chessboard. He's the only one who will play checkmate here. 

“You can’t.” Spock raises a tiny eyebrow. He’s taller and stronger and he can bear the heat, the weight of the gravity crumbling Jim’s bones. “You belong to me and you will do as I tell you.”

Jim would stick his tongue out at his brother, pull faces and exchange pinches. But this boy is not his brother, so he spits at him instead.

The older boy turns his cheek and wipes it away. 

He strikes Jim in the stomach, winding him, sending him rolling away into the sand.

"You're not what I was promised." The boy stands above him. He has no expression although his brow is bent with a sulk. "Father alerted me to the possibility of a playmate, but you are like the other children. You run from me."

"I run from you because you hit me!"

** "I can make you not run anymore. You know I can." **

Jim wakes from the fresh nightmare and stuffs the pillow into his mouth to stop from howling. For the first time, he is awake before Spock, and it is still night, if just barely, for light from the horizon rolls onto the sands.

Jim swallows and wipes his nose. He glances over at Spock, who is still, breathing even, and for a moment, Jim closes his eyes and matches his breathing with Spock's, although he knows it'll be unwelcome. It has been a week since their bust-up, and Spock is silent and bitter and having his meals without Jim (and none of their beloved games.)

Depressed, Jim pulls aside his blankets and creeps downstairs. 

The garden opens before him. The air is warm and wet with the rare spring of rain, and the plants hang heavy and nourished in the early light. 

Jim sits on the bench facing the high mountains of burnt beige and sand as above the sky bleeds red. In the distance, a wild Sehlat roams lazily, an enormous female backed by three cubs who bite and roll in the dust.

"You are awake early, Ek-zer."

Sarek is sat beneath Spock's favourite tree. By his stance, Jim knows he has finished meditating.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Hm." Sarek opens his eyes. "Your nights are troubled by dreams. You need your rest." 

"I get enough rest." Jim rubs his knees. He's gotten longer since his tenth birthday. His feet reach the ground now, and he can catch the first high branch of the tree. "Spock is still asleep, he doesn't need me right now."

Sarek stands, placing his hands inside the gaped hang of his sleeves.

"Today is an important date for Spock." He gazes out toward the landscape. For a short while, they see the same things. "His betrothed is visiting. I except your behaviour to be impeccable."

"Wait! Betrothed? But he's only a kid..."

"Indeed. Their bond was on Spock's seventh birthday. It is a tradition." He turns to Jim. "The name of Spock's intended is T'Pring. In time, she shall inherit his name and property, and therefore, by extension, yourself." Jim shudders, and Sarek adds; "Confirm that you understand." 

"Affirmative."

"Good."

Jim swings his legs back and forth. He glances up; Sarek is gone.

A hiss of breath twitches his ear. Jim jumps, half cries out.

"I trust you are attending to my son accordingly?"

A slither of Sarek's robe flutters against the back of Jim's neck and the boy grits his teeth.

"Affirmative." He gnashes out the word. "Always."

"Good." Sarek turns, his tone altering upon seeing Amanda, anxious by the door, and the softness of his voice makes Jim shiver more than any threat. "You have risen early, beloved. You are preparing for breakfast?"

"Yes, _adun." _Their fingers touch. He presses into her, the width of his shoulders and cloak engulfing her back into the dry, cool dark of the kitchen. Her frail slip of pink vanishes and Jim hugs his stomach, the heat making him retch.

He has to survive this.

He will survive this.

* * *

Spock is awake when Jim, washed and freshly dressed, creeps back through the door. Spock, sat on the bed, is smoothing his fingers over Butler's worn fur and glaring out at the sun as if he could halt its rise.

"Spock." Jim creaks the door open. Spock's thumbs circle over the glass eyes of the bear. Jim pads across the floor, climbing onto the end of the bed and puts his hand on Butler's tummy. He clears his throat. "Did your Ma make him?"

"Yes," Spock answers, very small.

Jim knows what he would say to Sam. _Your girlfriend is coming, yuck yuck, don't swap spit in front of me, okay? _

But Spock looks as if he has been double-booked for a root canal. He rolls on his back, Butler to his chest. 

Jim sucks his lower lip, and carefully lies beside Spock. Not close enough to touch, but just so he can hear Spock's breath, the throb of his heartbeat on the left side of his ribs.

Their hearts are in different places, yet make the same sound. The thought clings to Jim like gum under a shoe and Jim thinks he doesn't want Spock unhappy, not really. He's never wanted that.

"Spock," He asks, gentle. "How far away are the stars from Vulcan?"

"Specify."

"Well..." Jim thinks. "The Milkway Galaxy."

Spock murmurs the numbers under his breath.

"Okay." Jim nods. He threads his fingers through his palms and stares up at the ceiling, trying to imagine the stars peeling through. "And how many light days would it take for us to reach it?"

Spock's reply is questioning.

"8.2 light days."

"At Warp Factor 3?"

"Affirmative."

"Then..." The bed creaks as Jim faces him. "...we could get away from here quite quickly, won't we? When we travel the stars. Eight days and we'll be far away enough. Nothing could chase us."

Spock sits up, Butler falling between them.

"Promise?" He whispers. 

Jim's jaw twitches.

"I..." He breathes out, and fiddles with Butler's ear. "I promise."

Spock holds up two fingers, and without a word, presses them to Jim's cheek. His lips tug in his tiny smile.

"Ek-zer." He says. "Thank you."

Jim's skin tingles with the touch. Spock pulls his fingers away and shuffles off the bed.

"We must prepare," He says, opening the cabinet. "It is imperative we are presented correctly."

The same lukewarm discomfort Jim sensed spying in Kuvak's cabinet pricks in his belly, but Jim bats it away.

"Do we have to look pretty for her?"

"Presentable." Spock corrects, pulling out a black robe laced in silver. "Attend me, Ek-zer."

"Is _she _pretty?" He tries to remember Sonak's instructions. He stumbles a little regardless, mucking up the knot, but Spock doesn't seem to mind.

"I do not know," He says, opening his arms as Jim pulls the sash tight. "I have have not seen T'pring in four years, five months, and seventeen days. I recall calculating her appearance as adequate."

Jim giggles.

Spock cocks his brow.

"I amuse you."

"Wow," Jim plumps out the skirt, unable to get the line right. Spock corrects it. "Such a lady killer. You look adequate today, darling. She's gonna love that."

"I do not love her," Spock says, dryly. "She is merely a mate when my time comes." 

"What time?"

"That information is classified until I am of age."

"Huh." Jim steps back. He thinks wryly of Sam, and how they'd watched the dogs in the backyards, and the sprays of fat puppies they kept finding in the hay and under the barn. An inevitable education, his Pa had said, as Jim marched about jokingly saying _ew _and _ yuck _and Sam had been strangely quiet. "The birds and the bees."

"The birds and the bees are not Vulcans."

"Buzzz, buzzz..." Jim grins. Spock shakes his head, but the smile is there. Jim dives about him, picking at his robe. "Buzzzz....I've stung you!"

"You have not. I am unharmed."

"It's prete - speculation, Spock. A game."

"An odd game," Spock wonders. "To pretend to be a Vespula Vulgaris in the process of releasing a toxin under duress or assault." 

"Sometimes it's fine to be odd," Jim counters. "Not everything has to make sense to be fun. Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland?"

* * *

T'Pring is a haughty shape behind her thin, chilly mother. Jim knows her from the training ship.

_ "It is unwarranted to explain to the human child the method upon which we shall extract the information. He does not have the capacity to understand." _

The mother fixes Jim with a viciously indifferent look, breaking it only to greet Sarek with a salute. T'Pring steps into the light and mimics the gesture. Spock, shadowed by his father, also repeats the action. It as if the wilting boy from before has gone. He appears confident, calculating even.

Jim sneaks a look at T'Pring, remembering Nyota's empathic description. Her dark hair is swept back from under her ears. Makeup has been applied on her lips and cheeks, starlight sparkle slathered under her brows. She reminds Jim of a picture of a vintage kiddie pageant, where the little girls were all prettied up and presented for judging. Ma had scoffed at the images and stuffed them back in the closet.

Behind T'Pring there is another girl. She is pale and freckled, scrubbed brusque and broad as opposed to T'pring's pointed, cosmetic perfection. Her gold hair sticks like straw from under her scarf, and her grey eyes are hard and tired.

She is human.

Jim closes his mouth very quickly. 

"Her aide," The mother explains. "Mu."

"She is not what I was promised," T'Pring says, clipped. Jim hates her immediately, and steps a little closer to Spock, their arms brushing together.

_ She's awful. _

A snap of feeling sings across their skin and Jim jumps away, breathless.

T'Pring enters the house with Sarek and her mother. Amanda is not present.

Spock whispers in his ear.

"I share your concern, Ek-zer." 

There is a hidden smile in his eyes, and beckoning Jim into the house, he follows.

* * *

The adults converse in old Vulcan in the lounge over thick purple juice. The children are regulated to the garden, where they sit in resident silence. The heat is immense. Mu sits behind T'Pring, rubbing her belly. Sweat peaks from her forehead and drips down her nose. Jim keeps glancing at her until he spies Spock, watching him from the corner of his dark eyes, a press of his brow and a drag of his lip that could or could not be a warning.

Spock and T'Pring exchange talk as dry as their parent's prune juice. Jim isn't listening to their conversation, but Mu and all he can see is her sweat, the paleness spread across her skin like a paste. She presses her fingers into her tummy and moans, and tugs at her collar. 

"Mu," T'Pring's tone is sharp. "Fetch us something to drink."

Mu murmurs affirmation and stumbles up. She wavers a little, shaking in the sun, and Jim jumps up to steady her. 

"Ek-zer," Spock calls. He has been watching Jim watching Mu. "I have not given you permission to leave."

"I'll be back," Jim says. "I'll help Mu."

"A logical choice," T'Pring cuts in. "I require more than a drink. Bring something to eat. That will require more than one aide, Spock."

Spock frowns at T'Pring, who stares blankly back. 

The sunlight falls across Mu's back, across their feet on the soil. Jim's skin burns with Spock's scrutiny.

"Hey," He lowers his voice to Mu. She peers at him blearily. "Are you okay?"

"No," She rasps. "My tummy hurts. I feel sick."

"C'mon," Jim pulls her into the kitchen. "It's the heat. I'll get you some water."

Mu wobbles to a seat. Jim turns on the tap, running his fingers beneath the water. The cold of it makes him gasp, melt with the relief. He fetches two glasses and a plate of greens from the larder for Spock and T'Pring, then turns with a full glass for Mu.

Blood drips down her bare legs, congealing between her toes. She hugs her middle, and whines.

"I'm dying," She sobs. She squeezes her eyes tight and whines, low and desperate; "I want my Mommy!"

Jim stands, stricken, in the centre of the kitchen. Through the window, Spock and T'Pring snap at each other. In the lounge, Sarek and T'Pring's mother converse in dull, dire voices.

"You're not dying," He whispers, taking her hand. She peers up at him, eyes bulged with tears. Jim chews his lower lip, awkward. "This is normal for girls. You're okay."

"I'm bleeding!" She bites back. "How is that normal?"

"I'll get Amanda," He says. "I'll be quick."

Mu wipes her nose with her hand.

"Who's Amanda?"

"Spock's Mom. Look, I'll only be a second."

Jim takes the water and greens and jogs light-footed back into the garden. T'Pring does not seem to have noticed the absence of Mu. She sits up stiff and furious, her delicate little hands squeezing her mauve robe. Spock sits opposite, collected. He perks up his head at the appearance of Jim. 

"Ek-zer." He says. "You have brought us sustenance."

"Yes." Jim presents the pair with a dazzling smile. T'Pring's eyes narrow. Spock's lips twitch. "I shall be back with you soon. I've been asked to do something in the house."

He sees Spock tilt his head to the path, empty, behind Jim. Satisfied, he nods.

"Satisfactory. Attend."

"Thank you, Spock," Jim says, oh so conciliatory, and Spock gives T'Pring a proud, pointed look. "I shall be back shortly."

He sprints back to the kitchen. Mu stands in the centre of the tiled floor, scrunching up her robe.

"I'm bleeding everywhere," She sobs. "I'm making such a mess."

"It's fine," Jim takes her hand. "I'll clean it."

"But it's gross!"

"It's just blood. C'mon."

Creeping past the lounge, the two children proceed up the stairs. 

"Are you allowed up here?" She says under her breath. "I would be punished if I was up here."

"I'm only allowed in Spock's room," Jim checks the coast is clear. Then, on a matter of principle, he adds; "You can call me Jim, by the way."

"Janice," The girl smiles. Her eyes glitter. "Janice Rand. I hate the name they gave me. It's so ugly."

"Ek-zer is what I'm stuck with," Jim sticks out his tongue. "Doesn't suit me much. We're here, by the way."

The adult bedroom looms at the end of the corridor, a double door with marble handles. The air is heavy with sandalwood and incense. Janice holds her nose and Jim sniggers, pushing her playfully.

He knocks.

Silence.

Jim hadn't heard Amanda moving around. With a sudden flinch of fear, he wonders if she's left. Janice watches him in the half-dark, chewing her lip bloody.

"Amanda?" Jim calls through the keyhole. "It's me, Jim."

Silence.

A pad of feet and the door unlocks, and there stands Amanda in a nightgown, with her hair loose down her back.

"Ek-zer?" She puts her hand over her chest. "Is it Spock? Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Jim says quickly. "With his miserable girlfriend. But there is a problem, and I thought you might be able to help."

Jim stands aside to reveal the tearful Janice. Amanda's eyes scope over Janice, the blood on her robe and legs, and instantly softens.

"Come in, sweetheart," She opens the door. "Quick, now. We'll get you sorted." Janice gives a hiccup of thanks and darts in. Amanda smiles and ruffles her hair. When she turns back to Jim, however, her expression is sombre.

"Ek-zer," she says. "Please return downstairs to Spock. I shall look after Janice. If anybody asks, she is attending me."

"Affirmative!" Jim winks, and she laughs, sweet and light, and Jim hurts at the sound. As he bounces down the stairs, he wonders. Is Spock like that? Could he laugh like that? Was there anything of his Mom in him?

But there was no time for further thought. Snatching a cloth from the kitchen, he mops up the blood. Surprisingly little, it seemed. His Pa always said a little blood looked like a lot. 

* * *

The garden was flushed with sunlight. The drinks and plates are empty between the two Vulcan children.

"Spock," Jim sits beside him. "Who won the staring contest?"

"Your attempt at humour is wasted," T'Pring says, acidic, smoothing out her skirt. "Where is Mu? I require her."

"She is currently attending Sarek's wife," Jim drops the levity from his voice like a rock. He recalls Sonak's lessons and adds; "It is customary for the aide of the daughter in law to offer service to her inlaws. Did you not know that?"

Green fringes the tip of T'Pring's nose.

"I can affirm to you that I did." She cuts to Spock. "Your aide is outspoken, Spock. That may cause you an issue in later years."

"Negative," Spock replies. "He is well versed in his lessons. The fact he is articulate is a show of his diligent mind."

The silent _you're jealous _curls T'Pring's lip.

"It is due to the efforts of your diligent aide," T'Pring declares. "That I was denied, my original aide."

Jim feels in his pocket for the earring.

_ Thank god. _

* * *

The lilt of a small bell calls forth the children. Spock and T'Pring dutifully rise and enter the lounge. Jim follows, cautious.

T'Pring's mother is stood by the door, Sarek beside her. Amanda sits behind her husband, a healthier Janice clung to her dress.

"We have formulated arrangements in light of recent developments." T'Pring's mother explains, Sarek sagely beside her. "When Spock reaches his time, and T'Pring is called to attend, as it has been since the beginning, our tradition dictates that the aides shall be called together, to provide blood for service as our offspring shall provide heirs for our houses."

It takes Jim a minute to drink that all in. Janice pulls a yucky face and barrels further into Amanda's skirt.

_ Well, _ Jim thinks dryly. _ That's not going to happen. _

"Negative." Spock steps up to his father. Amanda, her hand in Janice's hair, bows her head. Jim thinks she could almost be smiling. "I reject that, Sa-mekh. Ek-zer's time is mine to dictate. I find this to be an inappropriate request."

Jim gawks at Spock, speechless.

"Your logic for this display, Spock?" T'Pring's mother glances at Sarek, who keeps his attention squarely on Spock.

"Ek-zer is my aide." Spock draws close to Jim. "I will require him indefinitely, in manners both professional and personal. The cultivation of a family will limit such requirements. Therefore, I reject this proposal."

"A logical rebuttal," Sarek says. "But consider, Spock. We are speaking of a legacy. The needs of the many that shall come after us, and the needs of the few, which is yourself. Therefore, their needs outclimb yours. Do you understand and accept this conclusion?"

Spock does not back down.

"I shall consider it, Sa-mekh."

"That is satisfactory." Sarek turns to T'Pring's mother. "Until we meet again. Long life and health, V'Luth. Come, Spock."

They exchange pleasantries as T'Pring returns to her mother. Janice clings to Amanda, her lower lip trembling, and Amanda kneels to speak to her, oh so gentle.

"Mu." T'Pring calls, shrill. "Attend."

"V'Luth." Amanda lowly addresses the mother. "If I may request a moment of your time?"

V'Luth tilts her head in Amanda's direction as if noticing her for the first time. A shadow draws on Sarek's brow.

"Affirmative." V'Luth nods at Sarek. "T'Pring, return to our shuttle. Mu, attend her. We will not be long."

As Janice passes Jim, she bumps her hand against his and mouths a tearful _thank you. _

Jim hooks his little finger around her thumb and smiles.

They linger, for a little while, and then, T'Pring and Janice are gone through the door.

* * *

Spock is silent as Jim undoes his robe.

"I don't think that went badly," He blows a curl out of his face. His hair is growing long, crimping past his ears. "Are you really supposed to marry her, Spock?"

Spock, his dressing done, ushers past him without a word.

"Spock," Jim blinks. "What's..."

"I am not in the mood for conversation, Ek-zer." He says, sharply. "Amuse yourself elsewhere."

Jim drops the robes on the floor.

"No."

Spock blinks, staring at the bundle of cloth lumped on the floor, and then, back at Jim with his arms crossed, his chin up and proud.

"You do not have the authority to..."

"I have all the authority I need," Jim replies, firm. "And I don't want to amuse myself. I want to know what's wrong, and you're gonna tell me."

Spock stares at him.

"C'mon, Spock," Jim steps over the robes. "You don't have to be like T'Pring. You don't have to be like them at all, because you're not like them, are you? At least about a half. And that's fine."

A pallor draws on Spock's face. The afternoon sun is marred by the passing of a cloud, startling the room in strange, shifting shapes.

"I am just like everyone else," Spock hisses. "I am a Vulcan."

"There it is!" Jim points at him. "You are a Vulcan, but you're also human, and they treat you badly because of it. And that's wrong, right?"

Spock stands in the changing light. He looks very little, suddenly, lost inside his collar. But his eyes, sherry brown, catch Jim's gaze, and sparkle, uncertain.

"I am what I am, Ek-zer." He says, quiet. "And I cannot alter that, as you cannot alter what you are."

"We can alter something," Jim approaches Spock, close enough to see eye to eye. "And that's how we treat each other. You are my friend, aren't you?"

Spock swallows. He glances down, rubbing his forefingers together.

"You want to be her friend more," He whispers, so low that Jim can barely catch it. "She is human, and you miss earth. You want her more than me."

Jim blinks, opens his mouth, closes it again.

He starts to laugh.

Spock snaps up his head.

"This is not amusing!" His voice is unnaturally high. "Do not mock me, Ek-zer!"

"I'm not," Jim gasps between giggles. "It's just...Spock. I've only met her for three hours. Are you _ serious?" _

Spock sniffs.

"I am," He answers, a little unsure. "At least, I think I was."

"Spock!" Jim slaps his arm, playful. Spock looks at his shoulder, then wide-eyed, back to Jim. "What's the logic in that?"

Spock sucks his lower lip. He settles on the bed.

"Not a lot." He murmurs. "Forgive me. I've never had anyone like you before, Ek-zer."

_ Forgive me. _

There is a crack in Jim's chest, like a blossom of a thorned flower in his gut. He sinks beside Spock, his laughter fading to dry little hiccups. They're just kids, both of them.

"It's okay," He says. Spock's hand lingers near his, his thumb inching toward Jim's pinky. Jim swallows. "It's okay. It is. Really."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ra tor nash?" - What is this?
> 
> "Spock, sa-fu t' Sarek. Danau wuh kloshai t' ish-veh gol'nevsu. -Spock, son of Sarek. Explain the behaviour of your aide.
> 
> "Au istau tor fosh nash-veh. Au tor komihn heh veling resha. Au nam-tor wi tor oren-tor etwel nahr." - He wishes to protect me. He is human and simply angered. He is yet to learn our discipline.
> 
> "Ah. Duhik na' wuh Vuhlkansu, hi wuh yauluhk noshtra na' wuh komihn. Svi' wak, au dungau taluhk na' du, Spock." -  
Ah. Foolish for a Vulcan, but an important trait for a human. In time, he shall be valuable for you, Spock.
> 
> "Au dungau oren-tor, svi' wak. Nash-veh dungi ma tor var-tor ish-veh Sa-mekh." - He shall learn, in time. I will have to tell your father.


	5. Sybok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years into Jim's service, Spock's brother comes to visit.

The sun shifts through crimson sand and marroon sky as the months turntable into years. 

"Do I have to dress you every morning, Spock?" Jim's feet stick out at the end of his mat. There'll come a time when he'll be too long for it altogether. Maybe when he's old enough, he'll be allowed a bed.

Spock's new uniform is trousers and a shirt that closes on the chest with a large bronze clasp. The older boys no longer wear the high reaching collars. Jim would give anything to wear trousers again. "Robes are fine and everything, but I'm not doing up your pants."

"Negative," Spock replies. "I will not need you to dress me every morning. The ceremonial dressing is only required for occasions that relate to our culture or traditions. Are you ready?"

"Ready as ever," Jim rolls up, smiling lazily. Spock's lashes flutter and he looks away. "With my highly varied wardrobe. He's wearing yellow again, folks!"

"You don't like your robes?"

"No." Jim springs up and stretches out. "I'm almost thirteen, and I wear more layers then my granny. Hell, I look like my granny in them."

"That would be unlikely." Spock quips, fetching his bag. Gone is the cumbersome satchel. In place, a sleek saddlebag. Spock drapes it over his head and pats the side of it with pride he would deny. "The fact you are not aged and female being chief among them."

"Tell me about it," Jim sighs. "Big day for you."

"Yes," Spock says. He turns back to the mirror. "I will be accepted into the Junior science division. I have aimed for this outcome."

He adjusts his collar, smoothes down his sleeves.

Jim smiles.

"Spock..."

"It is imperative I keep control of my emotions. I meditated for an extra hour last evening, to prepare..."

"Spock."

"Do you believe I have attached the clasp correctly? As far as I can see, it is 1.2 centimetres to the left..."

"Spock!" He leans in beside Spock, their heads mirrored. Spock's cheeks, frilled with green, his bangs rounded to circular perfection. Jim, his hair curled past his ears, his baby lock of hair curling onto his forehead. "You'll be fine."

"I am not anxious," Spock clarifies, but his shoulder pushes into Jim, just slightly. 

"Sure," Jim steps away, hands up. "I know, not logical."

"Indeed." Spock's face is flat, but there's a twinkle in his eye. "I have requested you to be relieved of your lessons today, to attend me during the ceremony. Do you accept?"

Jim laughs.

"As if I have a choice. Why ask?"

Spock blinks a little too rapidly.

"I believed it would be pleasing to ask you," He says, gently. "Is it not?"

"No, it is, it's just..." Spock's hesitance pulls at him, painful. He swallows. "...of course, I'll be there for you. Always."

Spock brightens.

"Affirmative," He pats the bag one more time. "Come. Attend me, Ek-zer."

* * *

The shuttle that arrives for them is smaller, sleeker, smart; designated only for the students selected for the specialist science programs. None of the other boys looks up as they enter, too involved with PaDDs brimming with calculations and equations and strange deconstructions of atoms and molecules. They all wear their neat uniforms. The impassivity pleases Spock, although only Jim can tell. He does a double-check.

No Stonn, or boys of his ilk. 

Fucking fabulous.

Spock sits as Jim scooches in beside him. Always happy to blend in, Spock switches on his PaDD, throwing up the same screens as his peers. Jim dutifully looks outside the window. Mount Seleya mounds on the horizon like a sleeping giant. If Jim was on earth, he and his Ma would have scaled that.

His breathing becomes tight, a vice on his ribs. 

_ Run, baby. We'll - _

As Spock has instructed him, he breathes in deep, even, imagining the scene floating away to the warm horizon beneath his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes, Spock is watching him.

Jim pinches the corner of his lip in an acceptably Vulcan smile.

"Spock," He shuffles closer. "Why is it that nobody else here has an aide?"

Spock glances at the other boys and satisfied, turn to Jim. 

"To have a personal aide is a privilege, Ek-zer," he whispers. "They are not dispatched to simply anyone."

Jim eyes the lines of bent heads.

_ No, _ he thinks. _ If everyone had an aide that might make Earth do something about it. _

"So..." He pulls himself closer. The boy on the seat across lifts his head, curious. "But I have seen humans. In the spaceport when I first came, and..."

"_ Personal _aides, Ek-zer," The crinkles around his eyes lift, indulgent. "You are chosen above all others."

"Oh." Jim pulls back. "I see." He coughs. "When is the ceremony today?"

"1200 hours," Spock passes the PaDD between them. "We will be called to the chamber at 1130hours. Affirmative?"

"Spock, yes." Jim rolls his eyes, playful. "Affirmative."

"Affirmative."

"You already said that."

"I can affirm I already did."

Vulcans don't laugh, but somehow Spock manages it.

* * *

Jim had sat beside the learning bowls and listened to the monotonous voices count facts, maths, traditions, cultures, all without one shred of excitement or involvement. How could you learn like that? No seminars, no sharing with peers, no questions or debates. Just cold facts fed into children like fattening chattel.

Just by stepping into the Science Division at Spock's side, he knows all that is going to change. There are classrooms with holographic projection and laboratories stacked with equipment, and places regulated for "discreet, respectful discussion." Spock shivers with excitement and Jim feels it in the charged air that exists between their skin. 

"Spock," He whispers. He'll have to be excited for the both of them (which happens a lot.) "This is amazing!"

"Indeed." Spock breathes. He joins the rest of the teenage boys, Jim's yellow burning among all the grey and black. "This is where we calculate the future, Ek-zer."

_ Your future, _ Jim thinks. _ Not mine. Or maybe you do, and that's frightening. _

"Think you'll be studying starships?" Jim asks. He stares at the long lines of seminars, of classes, of available lessons and he's so, so jealous. 

"Space exploration is one of our topics, yes."

Jim has access to Spock's PaDD, and the habit of trying to read all his lesson briefs and research notes. He knows what he'll be second-hand reading in the few hours he is permitted to himself. 

The boys are crowded into a briefing room, in an orderly semi-circle. Their two instructors step out into the centre.

Jim holds his breath.

As does Spock.

The instructor is a Vulcan in his middle years, tall and thin like a needle prick with an intense, intelligent expression. The secondary instructor is a human male, handsome, young, dark skin and eyes. He is dressed in the same grey uniform, minus a sash of yellow tied around his waist. He could almost be a Vulcan himself, with his thinking gaze. They scope the crowd of boys, before they latch, momentarily, onto Jim. 

Jim gives him a challenging stare.

The man raises his brow, just slightly.

The Vulcan instructor salutes the children. They, including Jim, return the gesture.

Jim can't stop looking at the man. The Instructor introduces himself as Kopok and his "aide and assistant" as Chyss. Some of the Vulcan children look but say nothing, and it takes Jim a moment to note Spock watching him, thoughtful.

* * *

The fact a human conducts their first lesson - without as much as a comment from the Vulcan children - sends Jim into a tizzy. He almost forgets he's not there to learn, but to aid. The desire to raise his hand and ask so many questions - space, travel, plasma weapons and warp engines - tingle his brain. He's so hungry for it. Being here, and yet, not being here, at the same time, drives him insane. By the end of the lesson, he's almost tearful with frustration. Exquisite torture. 

How is the human there? Why is he there? Can an aide become an instructor, a scientist? Is that even possible?

He knows for a fact an aide cannot become a Starship Captain.

At the end of the first lesson, the Vulcan children spill out. Jim hangs back as Spock discusses semantics with the other children. 

Chyss clears his desk.

Jim, breathless, waits by the door.

"You are needed." He has a rich, authoritative voice. Jim is so used to whispers, whimpers, dropped tones and murmured apologies. "If I were you, I would not let your Vulcan get too far."

"Are you an aide?" Jim asks. "And a teacher? Really?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Discipline," Chyss responds. "Hard work. Diligence. An intellect measurable to that of a Vulcan."

"So, you're saying you have to become more Vulcan?"

Through the floor to the ceiling glass window that separates the classrooms, Kopok busies himself, unnoticed. Chyss passes Jim, who falls into pace with him.

"In a way," Chyss's voice falls to a whisper. "It is never a bad thing to gauge who and what we are dealing with."

Spock is still deep in conversation with his peers. He is confident, in his element. He writes on his PaDD. The other children gather to observe his equation.

Chyss passes by; Jim catches the yellow sash.

"Wait," He says. "My name is Jim. James Tiberius Kirk."

Chyss stares down at him, contemplating. He lifts his gaze to Kobok, who stands up straight, intent, behind the glass.

"Yes." He says. "I know."

* * *

The ceremony takes place in the conference hall of the Science Academy. The spear of the building peaks the sky opposite the grand chambers of the High Command. On earth, Jim had only known about the High Command in the same vague, loose way he knew about the President, or God, or his parent's lawyer. Boring, grown-up stuff, with just the essential knowledge of a kid. They were big and important and you didn't cross them.

He'd heard his Dad mouth off to his Mom about them when all he did was lie on the floor on his belly and crayon on his brother's comic books. He wishes he could remember more, scoop into my brain and pull it all out into the open. The smell of coarse hay, of flowering lavender, seems more than a whisper of scent in his memory, so does the taste of baked apples, of roast chicken and crispy potatoes. Of a world where there are autumn and winter and skies that shine sapphire in the summer.

Jim is ushered to the side with the other human aides. There are few, all in shades of yellow, and he is the youngest (and the only one to keep his head up.) Chyss stands stiffly beside Kopok, his sash just visible beneath his uniform.

Sarek and Amanda occupy stalls above the chambers, alongside parents and teachers. Amanda lifts her veil, her cheeks pink with pride. Sonak, lean and pale, sits at the back. Without his PaDD, his hands look empty. 

As the children line up in their identical uniforms, Jim keens to get a glimpse of Spock. His half-human heritage amounts in his eyes. In every other place, he is a Vulcan. In the brilliance of his brown iris, there is the human. Hungry. Invigorated. Excited.

It is one of the few times Jim thinks their heartbeats match in tandem.

The thought shocks the coil of his brain. Jim shudders as if shaking off a chill. Sonak tilts his head in his direction, the tiniest crease in his brow.

Spock glances at Jim as if by clockwork.

_ Thank you, Ek-zer. _

Before Jim can think any further, the two main doors open slow and grand and Kopok and Chyss part to allow the elder to enter.

Every muscle in Jim's body seizes up.

Kuvak glides down the stairs to the waiting children, ornate robes swishing with his walk, like the ripple of a bat's wing. Jim instinctively snaps to the old bastard's hands as he addresses the hall in ancient Vulcan. As each child approaches for Kuvak to rest his hands on their cheek and temple, Jim's head begins to pound. He swallows hard, harder as Spock steps up, fearless.

_ Why are you not afraid? _

Kuvak prises his fingers away from the soft of Spock's cheek.

Violence trembles in Jim's belly. 

The Vulcans stand as a sign of respect. Amanda delicately touches her chest, her sights on Spock and nothing else. Sarek guides her to the exit, diverting her from the lingering attention of his colleagues.

The Vulcan boys file out. The humans follow, disperse.

Only Jim is left.

Kuvak pauses at the stairs. He turns, slowly, to meet Jim's glower. 

"Ek-zer." The robe slides with his stride. Jim does not bolt, although his muscles spring, as if ready. "I trust you have been settling in. Sonak has provided me with validating feedback."

"Not my name," Jim murmurs beneath his breath. "Jim Kirk."

"Ek-zer," The sunlight, blinding and dusty, fringes the outline of Spock, stood at the door. "What are you doing?"

He hasn't seen Kuvak. 

The coil in Jim's body unfurls into a swift, panicked run.

He slams into Spock; the doors of the hallway swing shut. 

"I want to go," He breathes hard, curling his fingers up into Spock's shirt. Spock, startled, stumbles. The hallway is empty. Spock came back for him. _ He came back. _ "Please, please. I don't want to be here."

"Ek-zer." Spock takes his hands. He's taller than Jim. The older they get, the more obvious the gap between grows. "Has something occurred?"

"Please." Jim calms, bumping his head on Spock's shoulder. He is exhausted. His robe clings to the cold sweat on his neck and belly. "Let's go, Spock." 

"Affirmative," Spock replies, gentle enough that Jim quakes with it. 

As he leads Jim away, he looks curiously back at the door, and his fingers tighten on Jim's hand until it becomes painful.

* * *

"Will I have to marry T'Pring's aide?"

The lessons have become harder, longer, complicated. Jim's handle of the language is fluent, although he still insists on speaking in English. He thinks of Spock in the Junior Science Academy and is sick with envy.

"Unless it is insisted on, then no." Sonak moves his rook. Jim counters with his knight. Two years, and he was yet to beat Sonak or Spock for that matter. Stalemates littered the months but they were not real victories.

"Two years ago, Sarek mentioned it." Jim swivels his chair. Sonak raises an eyebrow. "Spock rejected it."

"That is highly unusual behaviour.'

"Is it though?" Jim sighs. Another stalemate. He can already see the board come alive in his head, can calculate each new move. "I thought Spock alone decided what I did, or so I've been told."

"As of now, he is still a minor," Sonak explains. "His father's desires naturally take precedence."

"For the record, I don't want to marry someone I don't know."

"A typical human response," drawls Sonak. "It is a tradition carried out since the beginning. You require more lessons in our culture, Ek-zer?"

"I understand it," Jim twiddles his pawn between his forefinger and thumb. "That does not mean I accept it or agree with it. A person can be capable of that, you know."

Sonak adjusts his rook.

"You have lost interest in the game?"

"It's gonna end in a stalemate," Jim sighs. "I can see it a mile off."

"So, therefore, you refuse to partake in the game? To reach a satisfying conclusion, one that asks of compromise?"

"A stalemate is a stalemate," Jim retorts. "It's stale. It does nothing. No one wins or loses. In fact, you're just stuck."

"You do not see it as a compromise?"

"No," Jim claims darkly. "I see it as resignation."

Sonak, calmly, closes up the board.

"I believe that is quite enough."

"I agree." Jim jumps off his chair. "I'm tired. I don't want any more lessons today."

"Negative." Sonak's tone is clipped. "Your lessons will persist whether you like it or not."

Jim drops down into the centre of the floor.

"Make me."

Sonak tightens his brow. 

Jim crosses his arms.

"You have been making significant progress, Ek-zer," He says. "Why the change in attitude?"

"No point in making progress," Jim replies; "If all you are going to do is report it back to Kuvak."

A pause.

Sonak sits down, crossing his legs like a teenager.

"You find the subject of Kuvak distressing," He says.

"No shit," Jim cuts back, hard.

Sonak pops his eyebrow, unamused.

"He is my superior," He explains, firm. "I cannot alter this, Ek-zer. You must understand."

"I've read up on your laws," Jim fusses his collar, pushing his thumb beneath it to feel the skin there, unaired since two years previous. "It is illegal to force a mind meld on your people."

Sonak tilts his head to the side.

"Affirmative."

"So, on the ship..." He stresses the last word. Sonak's throat dips. They don't discuss the training ship. Jim cannot, not with the memory of Nyota and Scotty disappearing within the airlock, and Jim, alone, in a corridor with his fists pumping on a young girl's chest. But now, the years open like an ugly flower, pricking Sonak's nerve with the thorn of their shared memory. Jim, so far, is the only person who can do this to him, or so he can see. "...when they, when _ he _ forced his way in my head..."

"I will be very careful, Ek-zer." The shadows close on his spindle cheeks in warning, masking his usually gentle tutor, but Jim isn't afraid. To think he was getting complacent. To think in some ways he had forgotten what this was all about. "You must understand. For touch telepaths, as we are, that is an unforgivable indiscretion, except under very select circumstances." He holds up his hand, just lightly, over Jim's face. Not to touch, but to cradle the air over the boy's face. The space between Jim's cheek and the arch of Sonak's palm thrums. Jim stares through the part of Sonak's fingers. "But humans are not Vulcans."

"We are not equal."

"Humans..." He lowers his hand. "...are not Vulcans, Ek-zer."

Jim shakes his head.

"Thank God."

"Ek-zer..."

"Where is the logic in slavery?"

Sonak bristles at the word.

"It is not "slavery" as humans understand it." He utters, slow as if Jim is stupid. "It is management, restraint, a careful tethering of a species that if unchecked, could wreck damage not only on themselves but on others. If you understood the complexities of interstellar diplomacy you would see the logic. " He leans in closer. "Your impulsivity is further evidence of that."

"That's your opinion," Jim chimes in. "And one that is easy to have because you're the conquerers. History is only written by the victors, right?"

"A simplistic perspective. We are not conquerors. We are observers, scientists, overseers. We had our wars, Ek-zer. We have had centuries to attain our ethos, our beliefs, our disciplines. Through our age and experience, we can inspire such reformation on other worlds. Install the same calm, the same warless world so many of your insipid earth songs crooned about in your previous centuries."

Jim's lip curls up tight.

"Are you insulting the Beatles, Sonak? Because that tells me you've been listening to the Beatles. And that song talks about peace and unity. Not helping yourself to the children of your rebels! I don't think they would have been that popular if they had!"

"I do not know these Beatles." Sonak retorts. "And we target only the children that fulfil certain criteria, Ek-zer. Those of sound and challenging mind, and in doing so, we integrate them into our society, attain their potential for the furthering of our society and therefore humanity. I know for a fact you have witnessed this yourself, have you not?"

Jim thinks of Chyll in his science blues and falls silent.

"Still not free," He whispers.

Sonak straightens his back and recites.

"Wuh bolau t' wuh wehk spunsau wuh bolau t' wuh zamu." 

Jim's body tightens like whipcord.

_ "Pulau na'vathular k'nuhk’es. Nar-tor n’pulaya s'au k'ka'es - k'tun-bosh el'rular!" _

* * *

The start of the Vulcan New Year brings the rains. The air is thin, the gravity an anchor on Jim's light body. The rains are not the cool refresh of water but warm acidic moisture the colour and smell of liver. It's extremely rare, according to Spock, and whilst it drops off his skin like raindrops, it itches Jim like poison oak, so he spends the first days of the new year under an umbrella or hiding behind Spock's PaDD.

It is with the new year that they are greeted with a new arrival.

The shuttle, unannounced, shoots light through Spock's window in the early morn. Jim tumbles awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The grease he'd applied on his rashes has mingled with his sweat and smeared on the mat. 

"What is it?" He mumbles, scratching the scabs off his legs. Spock keeps vigil by the window. 

"We appear to about to be presented with my brother."

"What?" Jim rips off his sheet and joins him. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"You are correct. I do not."

"What?"

"I have a half brother."

"Okay," It's best not to argue, not with Spock so rigid. In the courtyard, the shuttle doors stream open and out steps a young Vulcan, older than Sam but younger then Sonak, blinding in open robes of white. He is heavily built, tawny skin stretched over his broad, glowing face. Focusing on the window, he presents Spock with a salute and a toothy grin.

"Um..." Jim clears his throat. "I can't really see the resemblance."

Spock tugs the curtain closed.

* * *

Sybok is so unlike Sarek and Spock Jim wonders if he is an actual alien. His hair is wild and tough and grown past his shoulders. He dresses in heavy sand boots, and he's easy with his smiles (too bright, Jim thinks. Too wide and sure of himself, like he knows better.)

When Jim sneaks down with Spock that morning, Sarek is ruthlessly refusing to sit down. Sybok calmly engages Amanda in pleasant conversation, handing her a parcel wrapped in pale red silk.

"Spock!" Sybok claps his hands together. Sarek's nostrils flare. Amanda attempts a watery smile and vanishes into the kitchen. A shadow shifts to make room for her before the doors swing shut. "How are you?"

He squeezes his shoulders in a pseudo hug, half lifting him off the floor. Spock, profoundly uncomfortable, keeps his hands latched to his sides, until Sybok, undeterred, lowers him back onto the floor. Sarek is visibly disgusted. Spock steps back and provides the salute.

"I am acceptably well for my age," He says. "And you, Sybok?"

"I am well, also," Sybok's face melts into a smooth, patronising smile. "You have grown up, Spock."

Spock blinks in that deliberate way that Jim knows is his own brand of sarcastic. 

"Would I be doing anything else?"

Sybok chuckles and goes to quip back before he sees Jim, half-hidden behind Spock.

"Hello," Jim says, firmly. 

Sybok's grin curls up to his ears.

"Sa-mekh." He turns to Sarek with a twinkle in his eye."You've acquired an aide for Spock."

"Affirmative."

"Finally challenging his loneliness, I see? Finally acting like a father."

"You arrived here unannounced." Sarek, solemn, takes his place by the front window. Mount Seleya keeps vigil over the sands. "Can you explain?"

"Sa-mekh!" Sybok's outburst slaps at the air. Jim rocks on his feet dazed, injected by a rush of anger, of fear, that isn't his. It is almost as if something has infected the atmosphere. From the kitchen, Amanda gasps as if suppressing a sob and a gruff voice hisses through the returning silence.

_ "Goddamn it Sybok, reel it in!" _

Spock steadies Jim, with a warning look at Sybok. The young man is oblivious.

Sarek lapses into guttural Vulcanian as Spock practically drags Jim into the kitchen. Their breakfast is ready, and only Amanda, dabbing at her eyes, stands alone by the sink.

* * *

Jim can't get that voice out of his head, the gruff and growl of it. Like Chyll's, it's so different from any human voice he has heard, and it is a human, he knows it, no Vulcan can sound like that.

He would ask Spock but the boy is silent and sulky and buries himself in his studies if Jim prods about Sybok. They talk about starships instead, Spock all too happy to discuss the sciences of his new lessons, and of _them, _ of the places they shall go, what they shall explore. Spock returns with blueprints of starships, and it hurts and lightens Jim, to see a feigned future. In fact, Spock is almost too keen in recent days, and Jim knows it is because there is another human in the house and even if he hasn't seen Janice for two years, he knows how it skitters on the lonely Spock.

He would say _ I'm not going anywhere_ but he knows that's not exactly true.

Sybok starts early to catch the shuttle to the city. He leaves just before first light, and Jim would stay awake if not for Spock's suspicious glances from his bed.

Sybok's aide flits about like a ghost until Jim thinks he might have imagined him, that desperation had carved out another Sam shaped body in his imagination. But finally, a week after Sybok has returned home to "continue his studies" (and Sarek has made countless excuses to visit the embassy for undisclosed reasons) he spots the young man digging in the garden.

He's beanpole skinny, a sweep of brown hair curled across his skull, stretching out his long arms in the heat. His freckled tan is just starting to crack through the red of his sunburn. He's on his knees, working soil through his hands, cheek bulged as he chews his tongue. He's quiet, but not. There's an entire conversation humming through his body, all twitches and toils in his hands, in the leaping of his brow. 

He's dressed like home. No robes but a simple white shirt, with a huge brimmed hat drooped over his head. He wears no yellow. Jim hides in the shade of the veranda, fidgeting. In the weeks since he's been here, it feels like he's approaching another alien; like he's forgotten how to talk to somebody like himself.

Conversation rides over the high wall. Sybok's voice, too animated, too rough, too stoked with emotion (his father's voice scolds him, says _level yourself before you humiliate yourself further _and Sybok, biting back with _Is that not an emotional response, Father?) _

The young man scoffs, wipes his hands on his trousers. He glances at the wall with an uneager familiarity and turns, his arms full of vegetables.

He sees Jim, half crept out of the shade. 

His lip twitches, tightness in the corner of his eyes. He's frozen, for a moment, and Jim thinks;_ yes, you've been avoiding me. _

He stalks into the kitchen. Jim scampers after him.

"You're like me, aren't you?" He gabbles. He'd meant to be more careful, more smooth, but all the unspoken human garble in him floods out in a wash. "They came and stole you, didn't they?"

The older boy says nothing. He places the basket on the hygiene steamer and plots some commands in the flat screen. His fingers are shaking. 

"Hey!" Jim pipes up. "Don't ignore me!"

"I should, and will, if you know what's good for you," He mutters, thick Gergoia accent steamrolled beneath the "speech correction" classes Sonak keeps trying to push on Jim. He stands back and a ghost of steam rises from the basket. He takes a deep breath. "I'm busy, kid. Beat it."

Jim crosses his arms.

"Busy enough to eavesdrop."

"You were spying, I take it?"

"No."

"Then don't talk about things you don't know the first half of. Fetch me that ladle, will ya."

It's not an order, but a request. Jim begrudgingly fetches it, twirling it over in his hands. The boy turns his head to him. His face is thin, dropped in on the cheeks. Jim knows. He misses hotpots and roast potatoes too.

He takes it, starts boiling up the water. Jim hovers, a fluttering in his chest. He prays Spock doesn't call for him, not now. 

"What are you doing?"

"Cookin' up some soup." He chops the vegetables, quick and rough. His hands are soft, not calloused. Not a farmer or a gardener. "Nosy, are you?"

"No." He hops onto the table. Sarek would demand him down. This boy just ignores it. "Where do you come from?"

"Earth," he says. "But you already know that."

"Where?"

"Don't matter now, no point in thinkin' about it."

"You're from Georgia, aren't you?"

"Big ears as well as a big nose." 

"Ma always said I was talented."

He glowers at Jim, scrunching up his nose. He has premature bags under his eyes and a lip that seems to be forever fighting to crook up in a half-smile. 

"Smartass."

"Bag of bones."

"Not my fault the only thing these hobgoblins eat are weeds and "_purifying_" pesticides." He delivers the word in a high, anal squeal. "I would like at least some fat content in my diet."

"Maybe you wouldn't be so bony!"

"Like that, do you?"

"You won't tell me your real name, will you?"

The rapport slams shut. The boy turns away, lumping vegetables into the pot. 

"What business that be of yours?"

"I'm Jim." He tilts his head. It always sounds so loud when he says that, but he likes it like that. "Jim Tiberius Kirk."

The young man stirs the pot. 

"My name is..." The ladle shakes. The boy grits his teeth and tries again. "It's...Le - Yel."

Jim knows what that means. The language books they supply him with, the lessons in the half-sphere pods with everything set to slow and simple so that a silly human boy like him can learn. "Yel" means sun. It's a weird name to call a pet human. 

"That's not your real name."

"No shit," He says, angry, but there's a touch of something else. Like an emotional toothache. Jim smiles. 

"I'm going to call you Bones," He hops off the counter. "Until you can tell me your real name."

"What's the point if you just make up another name for me?" He tears up leaves, adds spice and lentils. 

"This name suits you. You're bony, so..."

"Genius, aren't you?"

Jim grins. He bounces over, steals a sip from the ladle.

"Hey!" Bones swats him away. "Damn it, kid. Not been here long, have you?"

"No," Jim sits up close to him. "Two years."

"Not long," Bones blows on the soup, has a taste. "For us, Jim. That's not long."

* * *

Sonak isn't there to greet Jim at their next lesson.

Usually, the young Vulcan would be standing in the doors of the lift, waiting to instruct Jim about what they were to do that day.

Jim had a lot of reasons to hate his routine, but Sonak wasn't one of them. 

Debates were usual for them. 

The last so-called "debate" they had had was in actual fact an argument and had left a vicious silence in its wake. 

Even the euphoria of his new friendship with Bones can't shake the dread in his belly. He enters the elevator, alone, and watches the lights blink down slowly.

Without the cover of Sonak, the elder Vulcans converge in the corners of the hallway. The grey helmets of their heads shimmer as they look at him. Jim slows and watches their eyes glint at him like black beetles from their pinched, plain faces.

Jim picks up his feet until he almost slams into the classroom door.

Sonak is stood by the learning bowl. In his hands is the Starship. He turns it slowly around, inspecting the broad rim of the body, the flaked warp engines circled at the back. 

The door clicks shut behind him.

Sonak tilts his head slowly to the side and places the figurine on the desk.

"Ek-zer," he says. "You have come for your lesson."

"Affirmative." The room is quiet, dusty, as if a separate world has been erected there, and neglected in the days since their last disagreement. 

Sonak sharply turns and sits down.

"You are ready to begin?"

"Sonak..."

"I have no patience for your protestations, Ek-zer," He taps open the lesson plan. "We are staying on our appointed schedule. I have been too lax."

"You've been letting me stimulate my goddamn mind," Jim bites back. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not if it encourages disruptive behaviour." Sonak lies the PaDD flat on the table. "You know that, Ek-zer."

"Sonak..."

"Enough!" A monotonous snap. One of the buttons of the PaDD pop from his grip and rolls by Jim's shoes. The boy sits, silenced. "We begin. Now, what are the correct..."

"I am sorry, Sonak."

Silence.

Sonak closes his mouth. 

"I know you can't stop who you report back to," Jim continues, all too happy to break the silence. Dad always said he could crack even polar ice with his smile and in a way, he is sorry. Not for believing in what he is, but for causing a rift in the one place where he can talk freely. Sonak is the only person minus Spock (and now hopefully, Bones) who he can confide in, and in his own distant, Vulcan way, he had tried to be kind. "It was illogical of me to expect you to change that. I am frustrated, and you're the only person I can tell, who knows where I came from. Not many people can say that."

Sonak takes a visible breath.

"Your apology is..." He cuts off, lowers his PaDD. "...accepted."

_ Some parts of it, _Jim thinks.

If Jim didn't know Sonak any better, he would say the Vulcan appears relieved and they complete the rest of the lessons with ease. Culture and history, two of Jim's favourites, and Sonak dryly states he is far too intrigued by the pre-reformation Vulcans.

"They were barbarians," He reminds him as he takes Jim up in the lift for his "recreation" hour. "You must remember that, Jim, and appreciate the civilised times we now live in."

For the sake of keeping the mood sweet, Jim just nods, and only when the lift doors close, does he blink in the brutal light and murmur under his breath that "at least they were honest."

He's all too happy to cross by the old school Spock detested, and retreat to the airy, busy spaces of the Junior Science Division.

Spock has colleagues, but no friends. He isn't bullied, nor is he ignored, but when the lunch hour comes, he is usually alone. Even with his brilliant brain, half-human blood is still a mar to friendships. Jim can't understand that. Spock is engaging, clever, and can even be funny at times (sometimes unintentionally, but he can't help that.)

Jim finds him examining samples through a thick ended telescope, his lunch abandoned beside him. Jim scoots in, firing a disapproving Elder a stunning smile. Vulcan sure had a lot of old people.

"Ek-zer," Spock adjusts his telescope. He always speaks as if he's been expecting him. "I have been countering the fluoride in this sample with a blood type indigenous to reptilian species on Vulcan. They possess unique salt fluoridation in their blood and saliva, preventing decay when they consume Carrion. It is fascinating."

"It sounds it," Jim pulls himself up on the seat beside him. "And what can you take from that?"

"Vulcans do not suffer tooth decay," Spock closes his telescope. "We have our teeth sealed at seven years of age. However, our domestic animals do. A sample of this may provide a countering to this affliction."

"Flouride, huh?" Jim peers over his shoulder. "We have that in toothpaste."

"Toothpaste."

"Affirmative," Jim can't help but play with that word. "We thought of it before you."

Spock raises a single brow.

"And we perfected the technique."

"What proof do you have of that?"

"Our teeth do not decay,"

"Maybe not. But eat something, please." He pushes Spock's lunchbox over to him. Vulcans eat distressingly little and only drink tea and water. Not the rich milky tea with sugar like his Nana would make when he was sick, but thin, green stews. Yuck. "Your Mom told me to remind you to eat."

"She worries unnecessarily," Spock dutifully clicks open the box as Jim tries to memorise everything on the walls, on the desks. Spock is all too quick to pick up on it. "I will report on my lessons tonight, Ek-zer. You will have time to review the materials."

"Thank you," Jim smiles, and dips his head on Spock's shoulder, closing his eyes. Sometimes he feels so tired and he doesn't know why, and already the shapes of Spock's body where he can rest - his shoulder, his arm, his lap - are becoming familiar areas to put himself, to calm the consistent, low-level panic crawling through his gut.

"Spock!" 

Jim jolts up. Spock instantly closes up like a clam.

Sybok is stood at the door. Gone are the white robes; instead, he wears a pale suit that Jim recognises as the uniform of the philosophical studies, such as Surak devotees or psychological analysts. Sybok's beard is trimmed neatly over his full, fervent cheeks. A selection of passing Vulcan scientists can barely disguise their disgust. 

Bones trails behind him in the science blue of the medical division. Jim's eyes grow wide. Bones winks.

Spock frowns.

"Brother," He says. Irritation is an earth emotion, apparently. "I am busy. Why have you chosen to come here now?"

"Why, Spock!" Sybok extends his arms. "It is the recreation hour. I thought we could spend some time together."

Spock looks as if he's swallowed a slug. Bones smirks.

"Nice to see that even the hobgoblins hate it when their uncool siblings cramp their style," He rolls his eyes, bouncing on his feet. It's an obvious habit. "I told you to leave it, Sybok. He's not interested."

"But I am." Sybok takes a step into the lab. Spock curls around his telescope, as if trying to shield it from his brother's happy contamination. "Please, Spock. I have not seen you in..."

"Seven years, four months, three days." Spock cuts in. "I am content for it to remain that way."

"But I am not," pushes Sybok, with a shade of Spock's determination. Ah, brothers. "Come on, now. There is a cafe Yel wants to try."

A blush smatters on Bones's cheeks. 

"Hey, don't pin this on me," He mutters, brightening as he turns to Jim. "Hey, Jim. How's it going? Survived your lesson, did you?"

Jim's face melts into a big smile.

"I made it up," He shrugs. "You know how it is."

"Don't I just?"

Sybok grins indulgently between them. Spock's jaw twitches.

"I have studies to attend to, brother." He says firmly. "And Ek-zer is not to be addressed as such by your aide. It is inappropriate."

Bones seems to notice Spock for the first time. 

"Easy there, mini Sarek," He snipes, with a curve of his impressive brow. "We don't have many rights, but at least permit us our own damn dialogue, alright?"

Spock tenses.

"Brother..."

"Enough, Spock," Sybok is unshaken by Bones's comment. "I know it is impossible for you to develop a sense of humour. Come, let's go."

* * *

Sybok is too animated in this world of silences and shuffling robes, too intent and hungry. He agitates the very breathing space around him, makes even the Elders drift up their ancient heads.

As they walk, Jim watches Bones from the corner of his eye. He wears no yellow but beneath the high neck of his shirt, there's a flash of gold, an enamelled choker with bluestone suns. 

Bones tugs up his collar.

The cafe is the Vulcan equivalent of an ice cream parlour, serving frozen iced teas in dainty glasses with long, curved spoons. Fashionable young men and women crowd the tables in discreet conversation. There are no figures in yellow, except Jim, and no boys of Spock's age. They all clamour together in a booth, Sybok with his elbows on the table and Bones with his feet idly kicked up on Jim's lap.

"Do they have anything edible in this joint?" Bones casually looks over the menu. "Nothin' that doesn't taste of stewed cabbage?"

"You're far too fussy, Yel," Sybok bumps his arm against Bones's shoulder, dreamy delight in his face at Bones's returning grunt. "They have a berry sorbet you may find pleasing. I know it's not sour."

"Oh, the heaven to be," Bones throws up his hands. "Such a choice. The best you Vulcans can do taste-wise is pretty promise it's not gonna make me suck in my cheeks?" 

Sybok sighs.

"Yel..."

"Fine," Bones springs his brow at Jim, who mimics the action. "You do whatever you think is best."

"Good." Sybok smiles kindly at Spock. "What would you like, brother?"

"I am not hungry."

"Come on," urges Sybok. "Your favourite flavour is green tea."

"Matcha," Jim adds, a jab in his tummy at Spock's flushed ears.

"Fine." He arranges his hands in his lap. "If I must."

Sybok gestures to the server, who places two green glasses in front of Spock and Sybok, and two "not sour" berry glasses for Jim and Bones.

Jim scoops his spoon in. It's tart, with no sweetness minus the watery fructose of cold, diluted fruit, but it beats green tea. He takes another mouthful, trying to savour what little sweet it has. Spock leaves his untouched.

"C'mon, Spock," Sybok's appetite is far healthier than his brother's. "At least try."

"I am not hungry."

"Hey, Spock," Jim pushes his glass to Spock. "Try mine."

Spock sniffs, but with a look at Jim, relaxes, and tentatively tries Jim's offered spoon.

He lightly smacks his lips.

"This is agreeable," is all he says, but under Jim's watchful eye, he finishes Jim's (Sybok finishes Spock's, and attempts to try Bones's. He gets a spoon in his eye for his trouble.)

Lo and behold, despite everything, it is (in Spock's words) an agreeable scene.

* * *

A bemused Sonak observes a breathless Jim lurch into the lift.

"Not the most dignified entrance, Ek-zer."

Between the fact he'd actually started to enjoy himself, he'd cut it too fine to the hour.

"Your..." Jim, bent double, rubs his knees. "...Spock. His brother, Sybok. He wanted..."

"Sybok?" Sonak all but punches the lift button. The door closes, trapping in the cool. Jim, relieved, slumps back against the wall. "Sarek's first son? I did not believe he was permitted on these premises. He is breaking the regulations put in place since his previous misdemeanour."

"He's the weirdest Vulcan I've ever met." Jim shakes. Sonak provides him with a canteen of water. Jim's fainting spells had eased, but Sonak always came prepared, and Jim is grateful for that. "He smiles and everything."

"It would be almost an insult to address him as a Vulcan," Sonak tugs down his uniform with viable bite. "He is disrespectful to our traditions. He should not be allowed in the capital, spreading his heresy."

"Heresy?" Jim wipes the sweat from his brow. "That is a very emotional word, Sonak."

"It is what it is, Ek-zer," Sonak passes into the corridor. "Come. Your afternoon lesson is prepared."

Jim bounces behind, shooting yet another glowing smile at a passing Elder and licking the lingering sweet from his lips,

He proceeds to walk dead centre into Sonak.

"Hey!" He rumples his hair, frustrated. "What's the holdup?"

Sonak's intake of breath is tiny, and therefore, colossal. Jim frowns and peeks over his shoulder.

Snoozing in the centre of the classroom is an enormous hump of fur and teeth. Drool collects in the drooping jowls and forms a puddle on the floor.

"I-Chik!" Sonak barks, stalking into the room. "Nash-veh var-tor du tor ri sarlah svi' la'."

The sehlat rumbles the room with her purr, rolling on her back.

"Is that..." Jim gawps, grins. "...a sehlat?"

"Indeed," Sonak mutters. "I-Chik. She is young and requires training."

"She's yours?"

"Affirmative. Now..."

The space that Sonak addresses is now empty.

Jim runs his palms down her stomach, the bristles of creamy fur pushing up between his fingers. She smells of animal, that musty heavy stink of barnyards and dog beds. She blinks at him with her tender, amber eyes and nudges his hand.

"Hey, I-Chik," Jim says gently. "My name is Jim."

Behind him, Sonak releases a tiny sigh.

* * *

Bones is always with Sybok, so it's hard to get him by himself. He hears them bickering in the rooms above Spock's bedroom. In private, Bones is as bitter as Jim suspected and that makes him happy because it means he is not alone, all quirky iced fruit drinks and smiles aside.

But what he hears make him worry. Sometimes they laugh, and Bones seems okay, but other times it is as if Bones is choking and Sybok's voice goes all low and soft and wobbly, and there are bangs and cries and muffled sobs, fading behind a chant that reminds Jim of Kuvak.

Sometimes he sees Bones after, and he's shaking as he walks, and Sybok has his arm around him, looking guilty. 

Jim decides he hates Sybok. 

Hate is such a big word. He Ma always said that. Dislike is better, she says, because it's mild and changeable. Jim thinks he'll never have another mild feeling again. He's been screwed up too hard. The world is so ungentle, and the only gentleness he sees (Spock's pretty, passive mother) is weak, doing nothing. 

He feels bad for feeling that. Spock's mother is kind. When Sarek calls Spock away for a day where even Jim is banned (and there are some places even Spock cannot call him to) they sit together and talk. She even cooks him things, sweetened with fruits and nuts, and he even gets to lay on her shoulder, her chest, feels her heartbeat in the same place as his.

And sometimes, when Sarek, Spock and Sybok aren't there, Bones emerges from wherever hidey-hole Sybok has him in and they all sit together, and play games, and chat, and Bones is funny to Jim and charming to Amanda and Jim can almost pretend they're a family.

He misses Spock when he isn't there, too (but he doesn't have a choice in that matter, so what's the use?)

* * *

On Jim's last birthday, he swore to himself he would try to forget the day altogether, scrub it out as just another stretch of hours full of lessons, Spock, and idly carding through his few belongings (Butler has joined his drawer. Spock says nothing.)

Typically, he wakes up on the day of his thirteenth birthday and fails it before he even opens his eyes.

Spock is gone. As they get older, Sarek is keener to escort Spock to more meetings, lessons, to meet other high society Vulcans.

Jim yawns, sweeping the covers back.

"I never understood why humans required so much rest."

Sybok is standing by Spock's window, the light all flushed on his steady, serious face. 

Jim does not move, nor does he smile back. The air itches with Sybok's evident excitement at finally finding Jim alone.

Oh dear.

Jim gets up gradually. The child part of him wants to run, to escape how impossibly wrong it always feels to be so near to Sybok, while the emerging teenager - that sounds so much like Sonak in his head - says calm, settle, keep it distant. 

He never understood why Vulcans had to reel so much of themselves in, but Sybok's mental powers are like a leaking sieve. They overflow everything, everyone. How can Bones stand it?

"I've got class." Jim washes his face in the basin. The liver rain has finally stopped, and the rashes have rinsed off his body like soap. "I'm going to be late."

"I never understood my father, taking a human mate," Sybok strikes out his hand to punctuate his point. Jim's knees gel together. He lets the flannel fall into the sink._ No_. "But until I met Yel, I did not understand. And yet, here I am, understanding more than I ever thought possible."

"That's..." Jim sighs in the space of Sybok's dramatic silence. "...nice."

"What have you done to my brother?" It's both a commendation and an accusation. "I have never seen him like this."

"Well, you've not seen him for seven years..."

"My brother always carried a remarkable amount of inner pain," Sybok cuts across him. Common sense isn't his language, Jim reckons, and won't be for a long time, and now all he can pray for is the reuse of his legs. "He never displayed it, unless you were looking for it. Now, it has lessened."

"I..."

"Is it something specific you have attempted?" Sybok towers over him, intent, curious. Jim inwardly groans. Only a Vulcan would ignore something as simple as needing a friend. "I would find it most beneficial to study this phenomenon."

"Phenomena?" Like easing concrete, he forces his knee joints free. The wrench of muscule throws him off balance. Sybok takes a step back, intrigued. "How can you talk of your brother like he's an experiment?"

Sybok rubs his chin.

"His very existence could be evidence of an experiment," He recants lightly. "Why, do not misunderstand. I care for Spock. He is vulnerable for he was born with a dis..."

"Being half-human is not a disadvantage," Jim snarls. He feels hot, sick of being fussed at and over. His body aches as if he's woken up different. He _feels_ different, as if violent chemicals are being pumped into his blood. Sulky, angry, fed up."If he has any pain at all, it's because you all keep reminding him of that fact!"

Sybok's teeth part the skin of his lips. Jim shudders, shoving past him, searching for his robe. He forgot to press it last night; he knows Sonak will call him out on it, quoting "presentability" and "effort, Ek-zer, is key to care."

"You are very interesting," He says lightly. "I would like to study you."

"I'm not an insect."

"It is a compliment. I am considered one of the most promising scholars in the Vulcan academy. Or, at least I was."

"Huh."

He ignores him. Without Spock, the shuttle ride will be a long and awkward one. The stares of the Vulcan children stick to him like burrs, prick his temper. He far prefers the stuffy Science Academy kids. They're way too arrogant to take notice of a human (unless it's Chyss, of course.)

Honeysuckle twitches Jim's nose. The ceiling unwinds into a blue sky, and daisy yellow hay surrounds him in a warm, sticky cloud.

Jim breathes a long-delayed sigh of relief.

It was a dream. All of it. He stares down at his hands and sees the previous three years ripped from them. He is little again, chubby again, home again.

He bounces around to sprint back to the house, but he sees -

Sybok, stricken, as lights split the sky and his mother appears -

"Run, baby! Get as far as you can, and do not look back, we'll follow, I -"

**"Stop it!"**

Silence.

Jim slips his sweating hands from his face. No hay, no lights, no honeysuckle, just the incense and tapestry of Spock's room, and Sybok, speechless, his hand outstretched.

"Forgive me. I did not..."

Jim snatches his bag and flees.

* * *

The shuttle ride bumps him along like a zombie. He places his palm in the area where Spock would sit. The entire world exists on a different plane, one where Jim cannot reach, not now. His head feels disjointed from his neck as if all his body parts are suspended centimetres from each other, and Jim is dully surprised he can even walk, for he isn't even sure if he has working legs. He's bumping along fine, but his brain is latched onto the reoccurring image of daisy hay and honeysuckle like a sadistic carousal. 

The oblivious Vulcans pass like ghosts. Sonak is not at the lift. Jim presses the button with his thumb. He does not smile at the Elders. He just stares at his approaching classroom, and one tiny part of him, painfully awake, wonders if he is turning into a Vulcan.

Sonak is sat at his desk. I-Chik trundles over, noses his feet.

Sonak stands.

"Greetings, Ek-zer."

Jim's lips move but no words come out. 

Sonak lowers his PaDD.

Jim doesn't mean to do it. He really, really doesn't. He opens his mouth to apologise, as a preface, but even then, that fails, for his face is buried in Sonak's chest.

A deafening quiet.

Sonak is rigid, born of hard lines, sharp bones beneath Jim's grip. He is woefully still. 

I-Chik mewls and rubs against his leg. 

Jim's knees hit the floor. He looks at his hands. The chubby sunburnt fingers are gone. His palms are wide, his fingers long and thick. He's _changed._

After an eternity, he senses Sonak kneel beside him.

"Ek-zer." He touches his shoulder. "Come now. You must rise."

"They took away my family," Jim whispers to I-Chik. She moons up at him with her sad sunset eyes. "They stole me from all I loved."

"The love your parents had for you was flawed." Sonak's breath is at his ear. "The human memory can play tricks, delude the truth. When they rebelled, they knew the risks. They took them anyway. It is only logical to assume they cared more about their mission then they did at the prospect of losing their children."

Jim pulls back, very slowly. Sonak stares at him, level, his hand hovering in the air between them. A stale, Vulcan comfort.

"With us," He continues; "You have a purpose, Ek-zer. You have a future undetermined by their selfishness. You may even see the stars. Come, this is hope. There is progress."

Jim has no answer for that. The fires in his head are cooling. He is becoming tired, worn down. The world returns to him gradually and he doesn't even have the energy to hate it.

"Sonak?" He shakes his head. "What's my name?"

* * *

"He told you that?"

Twenty-four hours later and Jim can talk about it.

Bones favours the small sprouts of green they get in the shade. None of the foliage is soft on Vulcan. It's tough and hard and prickly, and even the flower petals are too thick, too bright, the perfume dense enough to knock you out. 

The vegetables are all odd shapes and colours, and salty and bitter to boot. Thankfully Bones has planted earth tomatoes and they grow to ripen rich, sweet red in the sun.

He wipes the dust from his knees and hands Jim a tomato. Jim catches the cherry skin between his teeth, breaking through to the summer pulp beneath. 

"Yeah," He chews, swallows. "Sonak said that..."

"Bullshit," growls Bones. "Don't go believing all that pointy propaganda. They're trying to weather you down, make you accept it. Well, don't."

Jim feels sick at his weakness. He'd been quiet, biddable for the rest of the lesson. Sonak had been gentle with him, and had even allowed him to sit with I-Chik and discuss the importance of the sehlat in warrior and domestic tradition. Jim adored I-Chik, all the soft, happy mass of her, and how she'd lifted her head to the side to pivot onto his lap, as not to hurt him with her teeth.

"Your parents loved you enough that they didn't want him to grow up in a world where the awful prospect of stolen children could exist," Bones continues, plucking the stalks from his tomatoes. "You remember that, you hear?"

Jim bows his head.

"Okay."

Bones shakes the dirt off his hands, frowning.

"You've been awful quiet, kid. Something happen?"

"Sybok," Jim swallows the seeds. Sam said that if he ate any seeds, they would root in his intestines and grow out of his stomach. "He was in my room yesterday morning."

The bucket clatters among the flowers. Tomatoes spill out by Jim's feet.

The sun glares off the pallor of Bones's face. 

_"What did he do?"_

Jim drops his tomato.

"Bones..." He falls into a whisper.

Bones stares off into the distance, the azure of his eyes cold, diamond cut, and they snap to Jim with a sudden, terrifying intensity. Without a sound, he spins on his heel and marches back to the house.

It takes Jim a whole minute before he gives chase. 

In the kitchen, Spock's eyes flash at him. From the lounge creeps the heat of raised voices.

Sybok and Bones are in the throes of a blazing row. 

"You callous son of a bitch!" Bones's humanity is so raw, so disturbing. Other aides strip themselves of it. Him, alone, seems to carry more then he can bear. "He's a kid, you freak! A goddamn child!"

"I was merely attempting to gauge his mind, and see, ultimately, if he was matched for my little brother!" Sybok's hushed tones vanish into thin, waspish hysteria. "His mind is closed to me! I had to determine why..."

"Maybe because it's none of your fucking business!" Jim can practically feel the spit spraying from here. Spock looks pointedly at Jim, who drags his gaze away to the dusty skies out head. "Maybe us illogical humans hate yer greenbloods pokin' around in our noggins! Maybe we'd like some respect! Some goddamn dignity!"

"Are you talking about Spock's aide, anymore?" Sybok's voice takes on the patronising coil of a prime time evangelist. "Or yourself, Yel?"

** _ Smash. _ **

Spock jumps, Jim in tow.

_ "Don't call me that!" _

"It is your given name..."

"It's the damn name you picked for me! I can't even remember my own, goddammit..."

Spock pushes his plate away. Bracing his hands behind his back, he leaves the table and closes the kitchen door behind him.

The voices die away.

Spock is speaking. Jim can't hear, doesn't want to hear even, but he knows Spock, knows his hard, hidden anger. Sybok's smug voice falters. Bones swears, slams the door. Jim hears the fade of footsteps overhead.

The kitchen door opens.

Spock closes the distance so fast Jim's back slams into the counter. His groping hand stumbles on Bones's soup pot, still smoking hot. With a yell, Jim sucks his fingers.

"If this ever happens again," Spock's voice is terrifyingly level. There have been no tears or stutters for a while now that Jim has noticed. Since the days away with good ol' Dad, Spock has become hard, difficult to reach. More Vulcan, Jim thinks with both sorrow and fear, and additionally, as always; _ I need to get out of here before you become too old and I get too used to saying yes. _"You alert me immediately. Affirmative?"

Jim nods.

"Affirmative."

Sybok hovers at the door. Spock's returning glare is unflinching, perfectly Vulcan in its hatred.

* * *

A day later, Spock and Sarek leave again, this time with Amanda permitted to follow. She wears her veil, gloves her hands. Sybok gives chase, and Jim is finally left alone, despite Spock's protest (his voice is breaking, becoming darker, weighted with maturity.)

"Hey, kid!" Bones is huddled beneath the window. Jim jumps smoothly through, tucking himself beside him. The courtyard is empty, and the overhead cloud cools the sun from their backs. 

"What is it, Bones?" He asks. "Got something for me?"

Bones smirks.

"You bet your skinny ass," He says gruffly, reaching for a box concealed beside him. "Got meself a little treat. Thought I'd share, cos' my Mama raised me right."

"What have you got?" Jim, bouncing, dives for the box. Bones playfully shoves him back on his rump.

"Easy, tiger!" He laughs. "Settle yourself."

It's a ration box, fat and overflowing with earth products. Sweets, cigarettes, a tiny tipple bottle of whiskey, jams and dried meats.

"Yoink." Bones snaps up the whiskey. "That be mine, I be thinkin'. Purely medicinal reasons, you understand."

"Hey!" Jim pushes his shoulder. "Let me at least have a swig."

"Maybe on your birthday," Bones brushes him off. "C'mon, let's have a scooch through. I'm starving."

The salty tug of the biltong on Jim's teeth is heavenly. Bones chews slow, savouring all the bliss.

"Jesus Christ," He murmurs. "Mary, Mother and spirits of mercy, have I missed some good ol' animal flesh."

"It's so good." Jim swallows and instantly regrets the loss. "Thank you for sharing it, Bones."

"Ah, don't talk about it! You'll get me all gooey." He waves off his hand. "You ready for dessert? Don't let the Vulcans see you with chocolate, though. Makes the hobgoblins get all frisky."

Jim blinks.

"Frisky?"

"Don't ask," Bones deadpans. "Pass me that bar, will ya? I'm in desperate need of some fat content."

They exchange sweets, caramels and pralines and sticky chews until Jim's teeth hurt in the best way and with a smile and a wink, Bones shuts the box.

"Save some for later, eh?" He lights a cigarette, smoking curling between his teeth. The singe of fresh tobacco is heavy in the air and Jim inhales, trying to get it all in.

When he opens his eyes, Bones is watching him. With a sigh, he passes the cigarette over.

"One choke, you hear," He growls. "Don't start gettin' a taste for that. Disgusting habit, you know, but damn good at cooling the fire in my head."

Jim inhales it, holds it, and exhales.

And chokes, for good measure.

Bones laughs as he thumps his back.

"Hey, Junior," He unscrews the whiskey, filling the cap. "Drink this. It'll open all your channels, help you breath better."

"That sounds like bullshit."

"Ah!" Bones holds up his finger. "Don't go dismissing my medical advice, now. I come from a long line of country doctors, you know. It's in my blood to bluff and people to believe it."

Coughing, Jim knocks it down. It's sweet and strong and clears his throat like a thunderclap.

"Hey." Bones coughs. "I've got something for you, kid."

He drops a black satchel into Jim's lap.

"Bones..."

"Don't get schmoozy on me, kid. Just open it up."

Jim unzips it with trembling hands.

It was an emergency medical kit. Basic painkillers, anti-venoms, all slotted up in shiny hypos. Tucked inside a side pocket is a black book, just small enough to fit into Jim's hands, leather and thick white writing paper, enough to take Jim's breath away, slotted with a handsome pen stencilled with J. An old earth flare is stuck in the last pocket. 

Jim looks at Bones, saucer-eyed.

"I figured a nerd like you would want someplace to write your thoughts down," Bones grouches, trying very hard to look at his nails and nothing else. "As for the pen, it's an antique. Consider the J a happy coincidence."

"And the...?"

"Medical kit!" Bones is evidently more comfortable with that subject. "Always useful. You never know. Anything could strike in this godforsaken snake pit these Vulcans call a planet. There's..." He gestures, tentatively, to a particular hypo. "...a special kind of hypo in there to help you breathe, if you ever find yourself out in the heat of the day."

Jim folds it up on his lap. He's smiling so wide his cheeks smart. Bones couldn't give him the notebook just as it was, it just had to been hidden in something practical. But for Jim, who has so little he can call his own, there is nothing better. He can _write _in it. He can put down all his thoughts, his feelings, his plans.

It's _his. _

"Bones," Jim beams. "Thank you."

"Hey." Bones pulls his hat over his eyes. "Happy birthday, Jim."

Jim shoves his side, laughing, smoke and whiskey layering the air with something that smells like home.

* * *

When Sarek arrives back that evening, Spock and Sybok crowd into the lounge like children. Amanda shadows her husband, visibly tired.

Jim is waiting for Spock in the hallway; they go upstairs together.

"Sa-mekh was disappointed in Sybok's emotional display," Spock settles at the end of his bed. Jim joins him, tucking a pillow under his arms to support his chin. "Tomorrow, he and I are to took a shuttle to the south of our home, to examine the rock formations just under the gravitational frequency of our third sun."

Jim snorts.

"He wants you to work it out?"

Spock sighs.

"It would seem so. I do not find the idea pleasing. You will require water, supplies, and sensible shoes. I will need you to..."

"Sure, I'll go," Jim props his chin on his fist. "You know me. Can't bear to be without you, Mr. Spock."

Spock blinks.

"Mr? A unusual choice of address. Are you mocking me?"

"I am teasing you." Jim throws his hands in the air. "After the last few days, a bit of teasing is okay. It means I like you, Spock."

Spock's face falls.

"You did not like me before?"

"Oh my god, Spock!"

* * *

The sky overhead is clear, tangerine in the early hours, but even then, the heat is incredible. 

"Gotta say," Bones slaps a hat down on Jim's head. He notes his spare medikit hung from Jim's hip and nods approvingly. "Sarek has weird ideas when it comes to dealing with his boys. Gotta think where he went wrong. An emotional Vulcan and a half-human! Why not pair them together?"

Sybok, in typical fashion, swings his arm near the thin rectangle of Spock's shoulders. Spock evades him, striding to the dip in the upcoming landscape. A collection of rocks mount in the distance, spiking upward to the sky, closing in at their pyramid top. It's almost organic. The sun sheens off Spock's hair as he turns his head to observe it. He settles his hand on his junior tricorder

"Goddamn it, yer pointy-eared hobgoblins!" Bones's cry carries in the spin of sand across the dunes. The city bursts in broken shards on the horizon. The shuttle left them about an hour ago. "Do you mind? Some of us don't have your endurance."

"Yel," Sybok pauses, turns to smile back. Flirtation bleeds in the space between the older boys and Jim clears his throat, nudging Bones's side. "Are you saying you require my assistance?"

"I'm saying I require you to reel in the hell in!" Bones hisses. "The kids are present, for god's sake!"

They've reached the hang of an enormous dune formed from pulpy granite rock. One of Vulcan's suns drifts lazily above in a blazing crescent.

Sybok shrugs at Bones's impassioned complaint.

"It's perfectly natural. When the time comes, it will be..."

"Shut up!" Bones warns. He sneaks a glance at Jim, who peers back, concerned. "Why don't you go and help Spock, Jim? I've got Romeo here to help with scanning the local life forms."

Jim, grateful for the admission, scans the area for his Vulcan, only to find him gone.

In the farthest distance, by the pyramid of rock tangled like tree roots, he spots a black crown of hair shimmering above the turning sands.

* * *

Jim doesn't know how Spock crossed it so fast. The heat climbs until he is dizzy, sick by the time he reaches the other boy, gravity anchoring his bones and making his step sluggish. Sybok and Bones's tiff has faded until he can no longer hear their voices, and when he tries to look back, the sun and sand bathe together in a rush of reds so thick he has to cover his eyes. Fumbling for the medikit, he pulls free Bones's prescribed hypo and administers it.

The brief sting of pain brings with it the clarity of his surroundings, a blessed evening of his breath.

"Spock!"

A scream.

Jim drops his hypo.

Claws roil dust under a heavy, hung belly. Green fur splays along the creature's spine like the sick splotches of a dart frog. Muscules pulse and writhe in its keen, lithe legs.

Spock is rolled on his side. Green lashes his skin, dripping down between his fingers, arm split from shoulder to wrist. In his spare hand, he wields a rock dappled in purple blood.

Jim sharply whistles.

The shadows stretch over the sands. Spock stares at him, bewildered, eyes round and wild.

Jim whistles again.

The animal pivots.

Jim reaches into the medikit, fumbling for the body of the flare. 

Scorches of light send the creature hissing. Jim swipes the air with it, howling, opening his arms and stamping his feet, trying to make himself as big as possible. 

It pounces.

Jim's ribs crack with the pressure, claws scraping the sand on either side of his head, stink and drool lathering on his face. 

A rock strikes the flared ears, drags open skin and tissue. 

The creature snarls, turning to sneer at Spock, who staggering to his feet, grasps another rock held in a warning.

Jim twists the flare and strikes, blindly, at the creature's face.

An unholy shriek. The weight shifts. Jim, ribs cracked, body bruised, falls onto his side and evacuates his stomach.

Dust trails behind the retreating beast. Stuck from its eye is the marred end of the still-burning flare.

The world fades, fizzles, the dull agony of his body pressuring him to fall, to faint.

No.

Le-Matya.

_ Poison. _

Spock!

The horizon sweeps in Jim's sight. He scrabbles to his knees.

"It got you?" God, the pain. Focus, _focus. _

"Affirmative," Spock's face is drained. "The claws, they..."

Jim dives for his arm, ripping away the remains of the sleeve. Spock topples, bewildered. Jim dumps Bones's emergency kit by their feet.

"Hold still," He says. "We haven't got much time."

With a deep breath, he closes his mouth over the tear.

Spock's cry sends the birds flittering from the rocks.

Jim spits blood and toxin onto the sand. The green streams over the red rock. Out here, it is like the world is upside down. Red rock, green blood.

He tears the anti-venom from Bones's kit, injecting it directly into the naked tissues of Spock's arm, then he sprays it with the antiseptic and binds it with the clean yellow of his robe.

"Where did you get that?" Spock whispers. He's trembling from the trauma but is, as always, fascinated. Spock's curiosity is like a sinkhole. Nothing will ever sate it.

"Bones," Jim's says, as a way of explanation. "This will slow the effects. I know the poison of a Le-Matya is deadly."

"It killed I-Chaya." Spock's skin pales into a sickly beige. "He's lying out there, somewhere."

With a desperate glance back at the horizon, Jim pulls the elder boy's good arm over his shoulder. Up ahead, the formation of rocks clung tightly together have a crevice they are small enough to squeeze into, and as far as Jim can see, no point of entry the Le-Matya can enter via his massive bulk.

Spock staggers as Jim pushes him through. He tears off his robe and lays it down on the soft, pulp sandstone. 

"Lay down, Spock."

Spock, trembling, obeys. Jim huddles beside him, tensing with the grind in his own ribcage, and peers out through the crevice. No Sybok, no Bones, and they cannot risk making any journey, not with that wild animal on the prowl.

He checks the kit. There aren't enough painkillers for the both of them, and the basic anti-venom is for Spock only.

"Ek-zer," Jim's voice wobbles. "I'm in pain."

"Hold on," Jim unclips the painkiller, easing it into Spock's neck with a comforting hiss. Spock exhales with relief, sinking into Jim's improvised mat. "Do you have a communicator, Spock?"

"Negative," Spock whispers. He's losing consciousness, the double dose fluttering his lashes. "Sybok, he..."

"Easy." Jim lays beside him, and then, just for the sake of emotional security, adds; "I'm here, Spock."

Silence. 

Spock sleeps. Jim waits, watches.

* * *

He dreams feverishly, lightly, images thin beneath his eyelids. 

_ Run, baby... _

He's cold. A ferocious wind gales through the rocks, slapping the sand around his feet. Jim grits his teeth and pushes into Spock, hiding his face in his arm.

The warmth of Spock shifts, shudders.

Jim's eyes spring open.

Spock whimpers, his long arms wrapped around his gut.

"Spock!" Jim sits up. "Spock, are you alright?"

"I-Chaya!" He cries. Jim freezes. He has never heard Spock sound like that before, never so raw or human. "I-Chaya! It's my fault, it's my fault!"

"Easy, Spock!" Jim forces him back down. Spock's elbow punches inside Jim's sore, bruised chest. "It's the poison, it's making you crazy!"

It takes all of his strength, but he manages to inject an anti-venom directly into his neck. Spock stills, gasps, collapses into Jim. The yellow bandage is soiled around his wrecked arm. 

Jim rubbing his spare hand around his chest, trying to feel if any of his ribs are broken.

Spock gives a short, feeble cry, and it's back to being the nursemaid.

"It's okay," He consoles him. "You're an ambassador's son, Spock. They'll come for you, I promise."

"I'm a disappointment to my father," Spock whispers. His eyes are clear, searching the starlit sky above them. "I am human. He does not want me. If I die it will be a relief to him."

Jim stares at him.

"That's not true, Spock." He feels the words in his mouth, not quite believing them. Sarek's ghost swells in his memory like a childhood nightmare. _ I am the most powerful person on your primal earth. _"He cares for you. He's just Vulcan like you are."

"Am I so much?" Tears cling to his lashes. Jim's hands are sweaty, filthy from the fight, but he entwines Spock's hand with his and keeps it there. "Will I ever..."

"Life isn't perfect, Spock," Jim says. "We all have things we want. Things we cannot have, no matter how much we..." The collar is tight on his pulse. Jim feels his heartbeat fighting against the clasp. "...wish for it. You have a family that loves you. You have your science. Your Dad _married _a human, Spock. He knew what he was doing."

"He is not at peace with it."

"Tough." Jim shakes his head. "That's his problem, not yours."

Spock wrinkles his brow.

"You make it sound so simple."

"Maybe that's because it is," Jim stretches out beside Spock, who holds his hand as if to never let it go. "You worry too much, Spock."

A pause.

"You dislike my father."

"Yeah."

"Might I ask why?"

"He took me from Earth." Jim swallows. "They hurt my parents. I lost my brother when I ran. Sarek was the one who found me."

Sand and debris cling to the mussed dome of Spock's hair. His skin is still pallid but his gaze is steady, coherent.

"That is a painful memory."

"Yes," Jim's voice cracks. "You don't know how much." He squeezes his ears shut, buries his face in the crook of his arm. The ache in his chest is unbearable, spreading like hot fire to the core of his belly. "Every year, I forget a bit more. It scares me, Spock. I don't want to forget who I am. It's getting harder to fight."

Spock's breath wavers at his ear.

"Fight what?"

"For my freedom," Jim looks away. "For finding a way home."

"Negative," Spock is soft, close. He holds Jim's hand tight, his forefingers moving over the knuckle. "You are at home. With us. With me."

Jim shakes his head, wordlessly.

"The only time I felt close to Sa-mekh was when you were chosen for me." Spock rests his head on the curl of Jim's skull. "I was alone with Mother and he sent a transmission from his ship. He said he'd found a boy for me. Mother was delighted. When I met you, I knew you were right. It was the one thing my Sa-mekh did because he cared for me. You say he stole you from your earth, but in doing so, you stole my loneliness. I'm sorry, Jim. I cannot feel regret for that."

The agony in Jim's chest is replaced by another. 

"There, then," He croaks. "You have your evidence your Dad loves you."

A pause. Jim licks his dry lips, and murmurs; "You called me Jim."

Spock touches Jim's cheek with his forefingers, and his skin burns with the contact.

"Can you not feel it, Jim?" Spock's nose bumps against his hairline. "Our bond?"

"Is that what it is?" Jim chuckles through his tears. "I just thought you were a bit electric." He sniffs. "It's a little weird."

"I won't let you forget who you are," Spock holds his hand tighter. "I promise."

_ "Me and Monty have made a promise, to remember each other's names. Even if they make us forget our own, we can know each other's." _

Jim breaks away, settles himself upon his haunches. It's a tragedy. Jim wishes they'd met later, earlier, whatever. That they'd met in any way but this.

"But we have met like this," Spock counters, concern and pride in his voice, as the air between them needles. He's shaking, the poison working slow through his bloodstream. It might have even loosened his tongue. "I do not regret it."

Jim swallows.

"What's my name, Spock?"

Spock sits up with difficulty. Jim swears and steadies him by his thin shoulders.

"James Tiberius Kirk," He rasps. "And you are my t'..."

He slumps, the deadweight winding Jim. Spock's heartbeat is faint, stilted. Saliva gathers in the corner of his mouth, green and lined with sick. To touch, he is freezing. Jim warms him with his hands and gropes for the final anti-venom.

"You're okay, Spock," He says, again and again. "I'm here. You're okay, I'm here, and I'm not going to leave you, I promise. Please, please stay alive."

The hiss of the hypo is the only sound in the carrion of lonely rock.

* * *

Pink light.

The air splits with a high, burring yowl.

Jim scrambles up, a rock held aloft in a warning.

The suns of I-Chik's eyes wink between the rent in the stone. Casting back her enormous head, her furred, bulged neck pulses with her honing cry.

"I-Chik!" The rock clunks as it hit the sand. He goes to rise, but his knees cripple, give out. His chin strikes the gravel, teeth clacking painfully in his gums. I-Chik whines, scraping her paw inside. In the distance, Jim hears the burst of voices, rough Vulcanian carrying across the desert.

Spock is dull, yellowed as if his green blood has cooled in his veins. Jim crawls to reach him and feels his face with his forefingers.

The touch comes alive. Spock's heartbeat is feeble but Jim senses the stir of it between their joined hands.

"Spock," Jim curls up next to him. Spock's lashes flutter, his lips parting. He looks so young."They're coming, Spock. They're coming."

There are footsteps on the ground; careful, pacing. 

Clung to Spock, Jim finally lets himself pass out.

* * *

White.

He is light, painless, alone.

A faint, insistent beating bleeds into his ears.

Spock.

"Spock!"

He hurls himself up. The sheets tangle around his sweating legs, kicking the blankets onto the floor. I-Chik lifts her huge head from her folded paws, a whistling whine between her gigantic teeth.

"Spock! Spock...!"

"Ek-zer," Hands on his shoulders. Sonak eases him into the bed. Jim fights him, desperately trying to unpick Spock from the room. "Calm yourself."

"Spo -...!"

"Is safe, and well." Sonak adjusts the sheets. "He is stable."

"The poison..."

"Is out of his body." Sonak sits back. "There is no permanent damage."

"Can I see him?"

"Not yet," I-Chik trundles over to Jim's bed, lolling her head on his hand. Jim weakly wraps back into the blankets. "He is still under surveillance. They are running tests to make certain there is no permanent damage."

An orderly stands at the door. Sonak rises immediately.

Jim grabs at his hand, clinging to his robe.

Sonak inhales, twitches.

"Don't leave me, please," He begs. "I don't want to be alone. Is B- Yel here? Can he come?"

Sonak gently pushes aside Jim's insistent grip.

"He is with Sybok, as his aide," He says. "I shall leave I-Chik with you. I will be back shortly to report any progress. Rest, Ek-zer."

Jim sinks back into the bed. I-Chik pants, impatient, nuzzling his arm.

Jim waits until Sonak's footsteps fade before he pats the empty space beside him. I-Chik clamours up, her bulk dipping the mattress, and Jim buries himself against her heartbeat.

Butler was a rescue they found meandering around the farm when Jim was seven. He was too young to be separated from his mother. Dad had nursed him and then wrapped up the bundle of black fur in a blanket, an old alarm clock ticking away in space of a mother's heart.

Jim, a lost child, pretending the mound of I-Chik's stomach is something resembling a mother.

No. He's thirteen, now. He won't be a child much longer.

He shuts his heavy eyelids.

Maybe that'll make everything easier.

* * *

A soft hiss of opening doors.

I-Chik yawns, her bulk slipping from Jim's arms. He wakes, smoothing his hair with his hands.

"Sonak?"

But it's Amanda, isn't it, gazing at Jim as if he hung the stars.

"You wonderful boy," Jim barely has time to react before he's gathered up in her arms and squeezed and squeezed and _squeezed_. Jim's sore ribs complain and he jitters, overwhelmed, only for her to yield and kiss his cheek, his forehead. "You saved my son."

Jim can't take it. He pulls away, aware of a tingling in his temples, a sweep of vertigo. Sarek stands behind his wife, unmoving. Silhouetted in the doorway is Sonak, who stares at Sarek with a flinch in his jaw, a flicker of his iris.

He's barely holding back his fury.

"My head hurts," Jim cradles his head. "Did somebody give me something?"

"Hush, now." Amanda kisses his forehead. "Rest. Spock will have need of you shortly. More than ever, as of now."

"That is correct." Sarek is unusually quiet in his speech. The shadows of early evening cloud his brow and his face has lessened in its harshness. "What you did has confirmed your eligibility as Spock's aide. I am gratified by this."

"How did...?" Jim pulls in Amanda's arms. "I didn't have a chance..."

"The mind touch was unnecessary." Sonak's voice is too loud in the bare, box room. Jim, weak, slumps against Amanda. His head feels raw, carved open, as if something has crawled into his ears and screamed there awhile. Jim covers his eyes and moans. "The trauma from his time hidden in the sands has weakened Ek-zer considerably. Your meld with Spock confirmed your son's story. You did not need..."

"Your point is heeded, Commander," Sarek's tone rings with all his old dangers. "What I did was logical. As it stands, the health and future of the house of Surak were at stake. It is logical to affirm both sides of the story Spock told us. He is young and suffering from tissue degeneration due to the toxin of the I-"

"He's what?" Jim's sight blurs with tears. For once, he does not care about anything else. "Spock!"

"You are distressing him, Sonak," Amanda whispers, in a rare show of steel. She can't stop touching Jim; his face, his arms, his poorly chest. How he wishes she would stop.

"Indeed." Sarek turns back to Jim. "Assign yourself elsewhere, Commander."

Sonak does not move.

"I cannot, Ambassador," He affirms, achingly polite. "I have been assigned to keep watch by Ek-zer's bedside, and so, I shall stay."

"That is unnecessary."

"It is my orders."

"Wife." Sarek straightens up. "Attend."

Amanda leaves Jim's side with a careful smile and matches her fingers to Sarek's.

"Ek-zer," Sarek tilts his head in Jim's direction. "You have done well. Your actions have cemented you as an invaluable member of our clan. As it is, you must retire now, for soon Spock will be awaking, and requesting your services."

An unsettling surge rises in Jim's stomach. He nods, feeling his temples, shivering in the bedclothes. It is the first time he has been truly cold since he stepped off the shuttle.

Amanda and Sarek leave peacefully.

He barely has time to snatch the sick bowl before he is violently ill into it, his body aching with the convulsions.

"Sorry," Sonak gracefully removes the bowl when Jim is done. "It's gross."

"Your body is reacting in conjunction with your physical and mental fatigue." Even concerned, Sonak still sounds like a textbook. "Emotional transference is a common symptom of a meld. Sarek's emotions concerning his son have affected you."

"My head..."

Sonak hovers his hand over Jim's face. He does not advance, but watches the boy, silently.

It is an offer.

Jim closes his eyes.

* * *

He does not see Spock until they arrive at a home empty of Sybok or Bones. A healer visits each morning and night until Spock's skin loses the sickly, butter yellow of near death. Jim sleeps on the mat, fusses the medication he isn't allowed to touch. He feeds Spock water and dry currants that taste like overripe grapes and thinks longingly of Bones and I-Chik. 

"Jim." It's all Spock can say now. No more Ek-zer. A shield has slipped between them and Spock is all too happy to embrace the secret Jim had whispered eagerly about three years ago. Long-time in coming it was too. "You must rest. You were hurt, too."

"Not as bad as you," Jim wonders if he's getting that aching cheek look that Amanda sports so smartly, of smiling when all you want to do is the opposite. Scream, in Jim's case, but Spock is better, so his smiles at least have some genuine flourish. "I'm pretty hardy. All that farmyard air."

"You imply you are primitive."

"Spock, you threw a rock at it."

"In such cases, Jim," Spock's warm use of his name grinds his heart to a halt. "I do not believe my evaluation of the third sun's eclipse on the sand particles of Vector 5 would have aided in preventing our attack."

Jim snorts.

Spock raises a perfect eyebrow. His lips are cracked with green blood, his throat choked with the rasp of sickness, but his eyes are bright and amused as Jim's snort becomes a clear, high laugh.

* * *

When Spock sleeps, Jim braves the Vulcan night to steal into the garden for air. Fatigue has kept him asleep during the day, so in the night, he is restless. A restless child, as his mother would say. Youngest child syndrome.

Hungry, he plucks of one Bones's fattest tomatoes and takes a bite. He'll cut up one later for Spock. It's an earth vegetable he can stand, at least (and Jim can steal everything he doesn't eat.)

"Damn you!"

He's yanked into the musky air of the greenhouse. Bones's huge, blue eyes burn through the dark and he shakes him, shakes him, shakes him. 

"What do you think you were doin', boy?" Jim doesn't think he's ever seen him like this. A vein pulses in his temple, as if threatening to burst. The country accent coarsens his voice. Jim shrinks. "What in gods green gables were ya thinkin', you stupid stupid..."

"I -" Jim is speechless, for once. "S-Spock, I h-had to..."

"Get yerself killed?" Bones snarls. His fingers cut into Jim's shoulders, bruises standing out on his sunburnt skin and Jim's lower lip wobbles with the pain. It isn't about the tomatoes. "Think its wise to herd yeself out there, with the skull bakin' heat and the wild animals? Think it wise to wander off, do ya?" He shakes him again. Jim's head snaps with the violence of it. "Do ya? Well, Mr Impossible? Do you?"

Jim bursts into tears.

Then Bones is pulling him in, hugging him tightly, squeezing until he can't breathe.

"Oh god, oh god, it's alright," He whispers. He noses his hair, his breath hot and stale from his tears. "I'm sorry, Jim. I'm sorry, it's okay, it's okay, I was just so frightened, I..."

Jim howls, burying his head into Bones's chest, smearing snot and tears but he doesn't care, he doesn't -

"Ssshhhh, ssshhhh." Bones cradles him. His ribcage digs into Jim's chest and he's so thin, thinner then he remembered. Typical Bones, not eating when he needs to, too choked with nerve. "Don't let them hobgoblins hear you. It's alright, Jim Boy. I've got you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

They slide to the floor together, Bones petting Jim's hair and back, whispering words sweet in his warm, southern drawl and Jim huddles in closer, desperate for comfort, for feeling.

In the distance, Sybok's voice.

Jim grips him tight.

"Please don't go," He says. "Don't leave me, Bones."

He's alone, he's alone, he's alone -

"No." Bones cradles him closer. "Fuck 'em. Fuck all of 'em. I'm not leaving here, Jim. Not you." His lips are rough on Jim's forehead. "I'm yours, ye here? From here on out, you and me. Never be apart. "

Jim fiddles Nyota's earring against the hard brunt of Bones's chest.

"Promise?"

"On me scouts honour," Bones gives his head a dry kiss. "You and me, we're family now."

Jim sniffs and burrows into his chest.

Bones smells like home.

No.

Bones is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pulau na'vathular k'nuhk’es. Nar-tor n’pulaya s'au k'ka'es - k'tun-bosh el'rular!"
> 
> Reach toward'others with'courtesy. Accept n'reach from'them with'equality - with careful hands.


	6. Sonak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adolescence introduces some cruel truths (and revelations, for everyone involved.)

"Why are we doing this again?"

The tree sap bleeds between the blades. With another huff of breath, Jim pulls the axe free. Bones lazily chucks the fresh timber back on Jim's accumulating pile. 

"It's a special kind of wood." A stick of grass sticks out between his teeth. He's nursing a secret brandy in his flask. "For an upcoming ceremony, or something."

"To toast their new year," Jim corrects. The wood cracks beneath his swing. The sun has baked him gold, even as he has tried to keep to the shade. "When they burn it, it flares a special colour. They no longer have the superstition of what the flames mean, but they'll all about tradition. I'll have to ask Sonak about it later."

Bones snorts beneath his sunhat.

"You care about those propaganda sittings?"

"Well..." Jim wipes his brow. "Thanks to you, Bones, I know have a greater anti tolerance for bullshit. But when he's not hailing the superiority of the Vulcan way of life..."

Bones makes a short, disgusted noise.

"... history is interesting. We have debates, play chess and I even beat him now, you know. He even lets I-Chik come along for most lessons."

"The man-eating bear?"

"Sehlats eat roots and insects, and carrion in the wild. They don't hunt or attack unless provoked by another predator."

"Yeah, well." Bones chews his stalk of grass. Over the low wall, a group of Vulcan girls have been watching Jim steadily for the last twenty minutes with no expression, except to occasionally whisper. Jim tries his best to ignore them. "Seems insane to have an equivalent of a grizzly to babysit your children."

Jim shrugs and retrieves his axe. For his fifteenth birthday, Spock had gifted him a pair of trousers and a loose, linen shirt, all in caramel colours. His sweat-soaked shirt lay over Bones's knees, who now focuses disdainfully on the watching girls, and then back at Jim as if demanding an explanation.

"I-Chik is adorable, and kind of useless." Jim's neck prickles as he hears the hushed conversation float from across the courtyard. One of the girls unconsciously wets her lower lip. "All she does is drool and eat. i don't know why Sarek won't get Spock a sehlat."

"Didn't you hear?" Bones spits out his grass stalk. "Poor thing died a few years back from poison. Nasty business it was too, and _hey!" _He shouts to the girls, who pull at each other to walk away. "Do you want a picture? It'll last longer!"

Jim laughs weakly.

"Don't know what they were staring at."

"Oh?" Bones sinks back onto his chair. "Are you playing dumb, or do you honestly not know?"

"Know what?"

"Jesus Christ." Bones rolls his eyes. "Haven't you noticed the estrogen brigade whenever you go for a walk? God forbid if you take your shirt off, they all come flockin' like birds in the winter."

Jim blinks at him.

"They're...?" He frowns at the space, runs a hand through his thick hair. "They're lookin' at _me? _"

* * *

Jim's fifteenth birthday had come and gone the previous month. It was the eve of the Vulcan summer with the poison oak rain. Jim had sewn an extra hood on his robes to prevent the crude irritation on his skin.

He'd risen early that morning after the fiasco with Bones and the Vulcan girls, and with Spock absent, stepped out of the shower and had a long look in the mirror.

He'd always been soft. Even with the muscule attained by domestic work and the nutrient-starved diet he endured as an aide, there is still a deceptive blush in the dip of his stomach, his hips, gathered around his pectorals. But he looks in the mirror, and its as if he's been stretched out, clumsily rearranged. His shoulders have broadened, the first hint of fine, fair hair furred down his stomach and chest. Boyish freckles are dying on his dimpled cheeks, giving way to the hearty tan typical of his Dad in his earlier years. 

Jim buttons up his trousers. He doesn't quite know what to feel about it all. Being a kid sucked enough. Getting older, he is certain, can only bring fresh problems.

The door clicks open.

Spock enters, slotting his PaDD into his satchel. His shoulders are full and his arms lanky and long and Jim knows he's going to be taller than him when they are both men.

_ No, _he thinks. _I won't be here when we are old enough to be called adults. _

"You are not dressed." Spock turns his back when he sees Jim is undressed. "We have four minutes."

Jim pulls on his shirt.

"When is the ceremony, Spock? The burning of old years?"

"The Yontau t' os tevun is tomorrow, Jim." Spock shines his boots. His academic achievements have been stitched into his uniform. Science blue, a singular honour. "I trust you were seeing to Yel's chores, yesterday?"

Jim laughs.

"He's a little bony in the arms to be chopping wood," Jim fastens up his blazer. The house of Surak is emblazoned on the chest. Another addition, and according to Spock, a sign of their status. "I don't mind. Helps me keep in shape."

"You do not require to keep in shape, Jim."

"Are you saying I'm fit?"

"I am saying you are in reasonable health."

"Are you saying I'm handsome?" 

"I am replying to neither query." 

Jim laughs. He does not understand Spock's bashfulness (and a part of him doesn't want to think about it, either) but he likes to tease, to push. Spock is one of the few people he can share a rapport, even if the older boy is making a concentrated effort not to stare.

"I will require you to attend me," Spock sighs, obviously depressed. "For tomorrow..."

"T'Pring. I know." Jim nods. "You won't have to speak to her, though."

"It is required we attempt to socialise."

"Attempt being the keyword, Spock," Jim winks. "I'm sure you can attempt at best and give up at worst."

"Your arrogance never ceases to amaze me."

"But you'll attempt, Spock."

Spock gives him a hint of a smile.

"Yes," He says. "I'll attempt."

* * *

The sun sets beneath the towering mount of Seleya. Jim stands and sweats and sighs. He had dressed Spock the hour before, in fabric and sashes that clung to the changing shapes of the older boy's body, and the banter had fallen flat as Jim had arranged the folds of his scarlet robes in the candlelight. 

Jim watches the wood warp and coil beneath the heat and for a moment it is as if he is watching himself, bend and fall beneath the chemical fire brewing in his blood.

T'Pring is there. She avoids Spock. Janice's face is lit with the firelight. Like the wood, her body has curved. Her freckles dance on her chéeks as she smiles at him.

They both make their excuses.

It has been five years since he last saw Janice. He has imagined in his head what he would way to her if they ever met again.

They don't say anything. She clashes her teeth against his lips before he can even mouth the words "hello" and they kiss if you want to call it that, a clumsy tug of lips and limbs.

He recalls Sarek's arrangement and thinks that yes, maybe this is a good idea, to get used to it. Maybe he can have this if he is to have any girl, and Janice is funny and smart and pretty enough, and his Ma would like her.

And that's why he can't do this, not really, even as his hormones beg him to. Because this isn't his choice, and he won't be here when he's old enough to marry.

With gentle force, he prises her off. Spit glistens between their faces and Jan giggles and wipes her mouth.

Spock's call travels across the sand.

Jim is so quick to obey it's almost suspicious. He returns to Spock's side without a word, trying not to walk funny, humiliation running hot through his body. 

There is an aide standing nearby her ornately draped mistress. She is heavily pregnant, struggling under the weight of a Vulcan child. 

Sybok stares hard into the dancing light. It flares silver, green, gold. An ill omen, Jim knows.

Bones leaves his side. Without prompt, he takes the baby from the woman and offers her his chair.

The firelight catches the thin curve of Kuvak's cheek as he turns to look. The other Vulcans share that slow, silent exchange that can only mean trouble.

An elder shadows her.

Cradling her heaving bump between her palms, she mouths the word "sorry" and tries to struggle up.

Bones's hand gently sits on her shoulder.

Kuvak's robe ripples as he walks.

Jim goes to bolt. Spock catches his arm, drags him close with shocking strength.

"No."

"He'll...!"

A young Vulcan stands up. He's strong, tall, a ceremonial spear in his hand. He towers over Bones's frail body, who glowers up into the unfeeling face. 

"Enough."

Sonak's shadow crosses between them. He gestures to the guard to stand down. 

The Vulcan baby paws at Bones's temples. Tenderly, he brushes the dark hair from the child's face. The light winks inside his eyes; he is staring at Sonak, who peers back, expressionless.

* * *

"Why did you stop me?"

Jim shouldn't shout. Not where Sarek can hear him. But Sarek has been weird lately, sharp in the tongue, refusing food and sleep and pulling at Amanda.

For a Vulcan, that is the equivalent of hurtling into hysterics.

Spock studies for his seminar on his PaDD. His ceremonial robes spill out around him. Jim can't tear his eyes away from the sharp cut of his hair beneath his ears, the thin flick of his wrist as he writes. Something in it almost makes him angry.

He can still taste Janice.

"Your impulsiveness would have got you into trouble." Spock won't look at Jim. "My father is impatient of late. I did not wish for you to face his wrath."

"What about Sybok? And Bones?"

"Sybok is of age. Bon - Yel is his responsibility."

"And what exactly is wrong with your father?"

A pause.

"We do not discuss it."

Jim blanches.

"Is it his time?"

Spock's silence confirms it.

"Fine." Jim sits. He pulls out his notebook, stifled with writing and scraps from Earth. "I won't ask. Be mighty awkward when it's your turn, though, and you can't bear to even look at your bride."

Spock flinches.

Jim turns the page of his book.

Silence.

"I'm sorry, Spock. I shouldn't have said that."

"Your assessment is correct. I do not desire her."

"So you shouldn't have to marry her."

"If I am unaided during my time..."

"Surely, there's someone else?" Jim shrugs before his tongue meets his brain and he mentally bites himself. _You idiot. _

The silence grows and the sheets shift as Spock rises.

"Would there be?" 

"I don't know. Is there anyone else you like?"

They don't talk about girls or boys, not how he heard the beginnings of Sam and his friends. Jim knows he likes both. He's been distracted by Sonak too much, the way his robes stretch across his narrow back, how they hitch on his thin white wrists, and Janice, with her long legs and hips, and on one very embarrassing occasion, Bones, when he'd accidentally walked in on him and Sybok.

But they've never talked about it. Jim is a teenager and his body is hot and sweaty and stretching, but Spock is as sweatless and sexless as ever. 

But Spock is now stood above Jim and his journal, and the look in his eye is anything but. 

The childlike curiosity is well and truly gone.

"I believe we have not played chess in a while," He says. Jim closes his book. His throat bobs with his swallow and he knows Spock sees it, can sense his testing satisfaction.

His fingers settled on the nape of Jim's neck, touching the hilt of the collar.

Jm chokes in the back of his throat; shoots up and away.

"Yeah," He smirks, cocky. It's a tearing flirt, a snapback to Spock's visible hunger. "Let's play. Maybe I can beat you this time."

* * *

Jim is almost tempted to bring up the incident at the festival to Sonak the next day. After all, the shadow of his tutor had calmed the outburst, stopped the shimmering figure of Kuvak in his tracks.

Sonak, unknowingly, had protected Bones.

Or maybe it was knowingly.

** "Elder Kuvak, I must protest. The ethics of this intrusion... **"

The memory of his protest prickles the weight of the awful memory. The lesson has been painfully fluid, without incident. Sybok, the elder son, has taken his brother for the day in place of Sarek, who is undertaking preparations for his "Time" and all Jim can do is mourn for Amanda (he can't raise the subject with Bones, who gets this awful glaze in his eye and avoids Sybok's sweet prodding looks.)

Without his friend, a bored Jim is even eager for the lesson to continue, but alas, he's forced out as usual, only to be met with the happy sight of Bones, waiting by the lift. He bounces on his feet at the sight of Jim.

Sonak patiently waits for an explanation.

"Who is..."

"Jim!" Bones, so used to ignoring any Vulcan that isn't Sybok, slides past Sonak as if he's made of dust bunnies. "You'll never guess what shit Sybok is in with his good ol' Dad. I thought the old codger's eyebrows were gonna fly off his face."

Jim stifles a chuckle. Sonak stares at Bones, as if can't quite believing he is here. 

"Okay, Bones," Jim scratches behind his ear. "You can tell me later, alright? By the way, this is my tutor, Sonak."

"Oh?" Bones lazily eyes up Sonak, who clamps his lips tight, jerking his chin up in a perfect example of Vulcan restraint. "How you doin'?"

"I am acceptable," Sonak replies as if he's pulling taffy between his teeth. Bones sniggers, stretches out his arms. His bones crack. Sonak's eyelashes flitter. "Ek-zer, whose aide is this?"

Bones's good mood instantly sours.

"My own," he snaps. "If you must know, it's Sybok. Big fella, ugly beard. You know him, right?"

"That is not surprising," Sonak says, acidic. I-Chik bats away at her lead, desperate to sniff Bones, who frowns and moves away, reluctant."I trust we did not name you "Bones?"

"No," Bones points at Jim. "He did. Jim."

"That is not his official designation..."

"But it's his name," Bones retorts. "And I can call him what I want. Like I could call you what I wanted if I liked. Capice?"

Sonak's brows touch his hairline.

"It is regrettable you feel that way."

"It's regrettable you look like you have a porcupine up your ass, but what's the use?"

"Girls, girls!" Jim rubs I-Chik's ears. "You're both pretty!"

Bones sniffs.

"Way to break the ice with the princess here," He mutters. "You really are Sonak, aren't you?"

Sonak lifts an eyebrow. Bones matches it. Jim stifles a laugh.

"Affirmative." He turns to Jim. "You have discussed me?"

"Oh, at length." Bones waves his hand. "You wouldn't believe half the things he said."

The look Sonak gives him is almost offended. Almost, if Sonak had any emotion (which he has, Jim knows.)

"If you would be so kind as to divulge such information."

"Not a chance."

"I trust I am not intruding."

Sonak clams up. Bones blinks, momentarily lost for words.

Chyss looks between him. Sonak lifts his chin as he would do with a superior and Jim's heart beats a little faster.

"How may we help you today, Chyss?" Sonak ignores Bones, who huffs but keeps one appreciative eye on Chyss, drinking him all in a single look. "You are offering no intrusion."

"Glad to hear it," Chyss allows a hint of amusement to warm his voice. "I am aware that Ek-zer is alone today. Might I request his assistance this recreation hour?"

"You cannot find anyone else to shift your boxes?" adds Bones.

"Ah," Chyss delivers Bones a dazzling smile. Sonak's jaw pulses a centimetre. "That would be a waste of Ek-zer's intellect. He shall be returned to you at the end of the hour. Come now, Ek-zer."

Jim follows, all too eager to elevate his boredom. He steals one last glance behind him. Sonak paces back to the elevator. Bones gives chase, hopping into the lift as the doors close.

* * *

Chyss's office is a mess of diagrams, of PaDDs blinking blue and black on the walls. Medical files stretch across his desk in rare plains of paper. 

Jim stands politely by as Chyss arranges, yes, a multitude of boxes.

"I've recently had trouble with my back," he lifts the heavier box on top of the smaller boxes. He stretches out his shoulders with a sigh. Without the scrutiny of the elder Vulcans, he moves much more naturally, and Jim can see why Bones was gawking. "Kopok has requested I lift less."

He speaks about Kopok with the same casual way his Ma used to about Dad at cookouts with the neighbours. Or so he thought she used to. Did she? Or maybe it was just Chyss who talked like that.

"Jim." Chyss interrupts his thoughts. Jim pulls them back, trying to stop the pebbles of memory (be careful, Bones had said. They can become an avalanche.) "Is it alright for you to give me a hand?"

"Sure." Jim breaks into a smile. "You called me Jim."

"That's your name, isn't it?"

They pass classrooms full of boys Jim's age, and then older teenagers, straight-backed, with identical hair cuts and uniforms in grey and green. They are surrounded by a holographic solar system, a glittering lacework of planets and stars.

"Ek-zer." Chyss calls quietly. "Come along, now."

The boxes weigh heavy in Jim's arms. By the time they reach Kopok's office, his elbows tremble with the strain. 

"Chyss." Kopok steps aside to allow them entrance. "I am gratified to see you have acquired assistance."

"Ek-zer is very useful," Chyss touches Kopok's forefingers. Jim lumps the boxes in the corner, breathless. "He has saved my back. Ek-zer, if you be so kind as to wait. Kopok and I have some matters to attend to."

They pass into the adjoining room. Jim, alone, takes the opportunity to snuffle out the office, an old habit from the training ship.

There is nothing of significance. A cold bowl of Plomeek soup and a glass of water stand on a windowsill overlooking the grounds. Mount Seleya is a devasting rise on the horizon. Jim knows Spock is there with Sybok. He closes his eyes and sighs, trying to feel the faint link between them. He feels cruel for their dispute last night, even if neither of them had voiced why the air had crackled as they played Chess. Soon, the tension broke open to Jim's laughter and Spock's small, secret smile, and -

Spock was no monster, no predator. He just -

A dull beep breaks his concertation.

Set beside the plomeek soup is an ancient communications device. Jim blinks at it. He's seen nothing like that since his childhood, wired up in his father's back shed.

It has the bulky, black and silver finish of the late 22nd century, and along the length of it wink fat, red bulbs, searching for radio waves.

_ Human _radio waves.

"Jim." Chyss stands at the door. Kopok is stood behind him, applying a dusky shadow to his eyelids with a brush. (All Vulcans have that pronounced purple above their eyelids. Spock's is more prominent, a natural lavender blush that deepens whenever he thinks. According to Bones, it's a key part of Vulcan vanity, like having a tight rack or a "good, solid backside" as he'd so eloquently put it.) "I thank you for your help today."

He trails his gaze towards the communications device, then back to Jim.

"Glad to help."

"Evidently. As a thank you, please take this old PaDD." He pushes it into Jim's hands. "You are of a point in your study where you require some kind of machine to log your progress, to plan." He looks square in Jim's eye. "It is useful as a means of contact. If I need you to carry more boxes, of course."

"Sure." Jim breaks into one of his charming smiles. (He's not sure if it is or not, but Bones is more than happy at pointing it out.) "I'll be sure to keep an eye out."

* * *

The smart angular dwellings that make up the centre of the city suit Sonak's efficient way of living. I-Chik bounds ahead, eager for home. Jim chases her, failing to secure the lead, and realises, dizzily, that he and Bones have technically followed Sonak home.

"Your bear lacks discipline," Bones quips, sneaking a drink from his canteen.

"A Sehlat is not a bear," Sonak replies, waspishly. "It is in actual fact..."

Bones shakes his head.

"It looks like a bear, so I'm gonna call it a bear."

"The Sehlat is a creature invaluable to the Vulcan people." Sonak slips into teaching mode. "Its proud kind has served us for centuries. To compare it to an earth animal no better than a pest..."

"What's wrong with our bears?"

Jim leaves them to it. 

Sonak's tiny bungalow is in the corner street of the Vulcan "suburbs" overlooking the dipped hollows of the Mes-Katrom desert. In the rippling heat, Jim can spy the indenture of a Vulcan Kolinahr monastery, built into the stone and flanked by two enormous pillars. A series of cloaked figures assemble beneath the rays of Vulcan's second sun.

"They are engaging in the ritual of midday fast." A cool voice floats up beside Jim. It's one of the Vulcan girls who was gawking at him those days ago. She's about his age, and pretty in that cold, angular way that all Vulcan females seem to share. Her hair is done up in fashionable braids, not the dour bowl cuts that are worn by the girls in Spock's old school, and her eyelids shimmer with scarlet sparkle. 

Jim blinks at her.

"I believe you would find it interesting to observe," She adds. "I have overheard Sonak discussing your interest in our history and civilisation."

"Um..." Jim just stares at her. Then, he catches Bones's eye from across the street, and then, he smiles. "You read me quite well, then."

It's not a particularly glowing smile - he knows how Vulcans hate exuberance. But it's a lessening of his facial muscles, a slothful tug of his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Bones rolls his eyes.

She hugs her books a little closer.

"You have made an impression." Her voice is a little high. "My name is T'Rel. I am stationed at the Science Academy."

"Really?" Jim beams. "You must be amazing, to get into there."

"It is not a subject that requires amazement," She stumbles a little. Jim smiles wider. "It is merely a factor of merit. I achieved higher scores than my peers. The outcome was favourable. I hold no hesitancy in proclaiming my achievements."

"Hesitancy is an emotion, right?"

"Affirmative."

Jim winks.

"So is pride."

She sniffs.

"It is only logical..."

"For one to state their merit." Jim nods. "Precisely. So, you are flawlessly logical in your conduct. Well done."

Her cheeks peak a gentle sage.

"Ek-zer," She tests his name. "May I request your presence in your next recreation session? I have observed Spock and he carries his study within that hour. Your presence will not be needed. I would like to further discuss the discipline of the monks..."

"T'Rel." Sonak's disapproval is palpable. Jim steps away. "What are you doing?"

She hugs her books. She's kind of cute, Jim thinks, like if Spock had hips and a semi-reasonable bust.

"I was engaging Ek-zer in conversation," She says, icy. "We were discussing the midday fast of the monastery in the neighbouring desert."

"Yeah," Bones rocks back on his feet. He snatches a knowing glance at Sonak's frown. "Not flirting, I take it?"

T'Rel seizes up.

"I can attest I was doing no such thing."

"In a pig's eye, sweetheart," Bones drawls, so beautifully southern that Jim fights back a smile. "You've been eatin' him up like caramel pudding since testosterone made a beeline for his body."

"I understand, T-Rel," Sonak cuts in curtly. "That you are aware that aides are not to interact without their designated companion?"

T-Rel's cheeks pinch green and Jim chortles, rolling on the balls of his feet.

"She's okay, Sonak," He says smoothly. "We were just discussing history and civilisation. Right, T-Rel?"

She looks down at her shoes.

"Affirmative," she whispers.

"Go on now," Sonak gestures to the road behind him. "You have studies to complete."

She hurries away, risking one final glance over her shoulder.

"My cousin," Sonak says dismissively. "She is young and therefore undisciplined."

"She's got an eye for the fellas," adds Bones.

"She's cute!" Jim perks up brightly, only to get a dual frown from the older boys.

"I do not appreciate that colloquialism," Sonak seems non-plussed that they've trailed him to his home. With a direct non-look at Bones, he passes through his front door. "Since you have expressed an interest, I shall see to it we will continue your lesson today indoors. Therefore, your human curiosity for the practices conducted by the monastery during the midday fast will be satisfied, and you will no longer need T'Rel's assistance."

Bones hops past him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Jim stifles a giggle into his arm. 

"Enough of that," He disappears into the kitchen. "You got anything decent to drink?"

* * *

Sarek returns the following week from his "vacation." Amanda shadows, her veil hiding her face, her collar pulled high under her chin.

From Spock's window Jim watches how her legs tremble beneath the laborious cling of her robes. Her husband supports her shoulder as the shuttle departs.

In the private of the garden, he dips his head and kisses her like a human.

Jim yanks the curtains across. Blood thumps behind his eyes in an awful rhythm and he remembers Spock's voice.

_ Breathe, Ek - _

_ Jim. _

"Jim."

Spock touches his shoulder.

"Your Dad has come back."

"I am aware. You are distressed."

Jim could almost disappear into Spock at that moment, launch himself into his chest like he did so many times as a kid (when he discovered Spock actually liked it, to be touched and held.)

"It's nothing." He smiles. "You gotta go down there and greet your folks."

"Yes." Spock does not move. His hand hovers shy of Jim's shoulder, a stale and testing comfort. "When you are better, I will."

"But they're your parents. They need..."

"As of this moment," Spock takes his hand. Jim breathes out in a rush. "You are my priority."

* * *

With Sarek's return, his instruction with Spock intensifies. Even if Sybok is his first son, it is on Spock where he levers all his ambition, his "Vulcanness."

His free time is spent sitting in the seminar halls waiting for Spock until he starts following Sonak home, Bones in tow with T-Chik, and Sybok is clocked in his philosophy, meditating for days, and so doesn't notice how his aide shadows Jim's tutor.

He gets so used to it over the adjoining weeks he doesn't even notice Spock's long, heavy silences until they begin to suffocate the evenings, and Spock puts aside his PaDD and books and sets the Chessboard between them.

They play. 

"Sorry, Spock," Jim says without looking up. He neglects his rook; chooses his knight instead. "I haven't been ignoring you. You've just been busy."

There is no reply. 

Spock's castle moves to the left of Jim's queen.

Jim hooks his forefinger around Spock's thumb and pulls, just lightly, to get his attention.

"Hey," He murmurs. "Careful. You talk too much and I'll get a sense of what you're thinking."

"That isn't possible," Spock replies, finally. "I have not said anything."

"Your nothing isn't anything," Jim smiles over the board. "I know you better than that."

Spock's lashes flutter as he looks up, and Jim smiles further.

"If anyone was to know me," He replies. "I do not find you an unworthy prospect."

Jim laughs.

"Such flattery, Mr Spock!"

"It is a fact, not flattery."

"Whatever you say." Jim twiddles a pawn between his fingers. "But regardless, your flattery hasn't got your victory."

A frown line creases Spock's brow, and he gazes down at the chessboard.

Jim kisses the pawn. 

"Checkmate, Mr Spock."

* * *

"I refuse to call you Bones. Do you have another designation?"

Bones scoffs. 

"You can call me Bones."

"Negative. It is a foolish nickname."

"It's the only one I've got."

"You must have another."

"Yes, but that's not right either."

Spock and Jim clear the pathway ahead. 

"It appears that Commander Sonak and Aide Yel have formed a rapport."

"You don't know half of it," Jim ducks from a series of stares by a group of passing girls. They shimmer quickly past from the warning in Spock's look. "They've been inseparable these past months. It's been weird, to be honest."

Bones has fallen behind. Sonak shadows him. Jim isn't as well versed as he is with Sonak as he is with Spock, but he would almost say he looked worried.

"I would not consider them compatible," Spock cuts in, his attention squarely on the retreating forms of the Vulcan girls. "However, I do not see the logic in my brother and Yel, so maybe my judgement is limited in that regard."

"Yeah," Jim turns away from the pair. He presses closer to Spock in reassurance. T'Rel is among the group of young women. Hugging her books, she stares at him beneath the black weight of her hair. She is very pretty; Jim's lips are dry. "I don't understand it much, myself."

* * *

By the time Jim has completed his errands, Spock is back at the academy for his evening instruction, and as Jim wanders back into the suburbs, the sunlight bleeds into the black of night. The accompanying houses glow from their windows. The heat is drowsy, close, a treacle on his feet. By the time he reaches Sonak's door, his eyelids droop to his cheeks and he has the weird notion he might wind up staying the night.

Sarek and Amanda are used to Spock working nightly at the academy; they'll just assume that Jim, ever the faithful aide, would be accompanying him. 

As Jim steps into the hallway, he is taken by the silence. A gentle glow escapes the door of the conservatory. Silent, Jim creeps closer, peering through the crack.

Bones kneels in front of Sonak. Candles burn in the dark, pulsing light soft against their twinned faces. Bones's hands shake. He curls them into fists. Curls, uncurls. 

Sonak's fingers caress the throb of Bones's temple, his thumb rested in the crook of the man's lips. They both inhale, exhale, in tandem.

"You feel a strange euphoria." Sonak soothes. His middle finger creeps to Bones's cheek. "Your body floats."

Slowly, Bones's fingers release. 

"Our minds are merging." He murmurs. "Our minds are one. I feel what you feel. I know what you know."

Bones whines; tiny, broken. 

"You are safe here." Sonak comforts. "You are with friends. No harm shall come to you. Let go. Let me in."

The creases smooth from his brow. The hunch in his shoulders fall. Bones is so young, barely a kid himself, and rolls his cheek into Sonak's palm with such trust it leaves Jim hurting.

Jim doesn't know how long he sits there listening to the silence, watching Sonak mouth words he can't discern and the candlelight flutter on the curl of Bones's lashes. Finally, Sonak's hand trembles between them, touching and yet not. Bones opens his eyes and stares at Sonak as if still in a trance, and Jim has the sense he is sitting in on something rare, private, formed between the two minds of the men he adores, and so, he gets noiselessly to his feet, and beckoning I-Chik, slips out of the patio doors.

* * *

Sonak's garden is tiny, boxed, delicate flowers wound up toward the stars. It is every bit as neat and as orderly as Sonak itself. Jim rests his head on I-Chik's drowsy bulk, the sky spanning above like a net of cast fireflies. He smells one of the fallen flowers, playing the petals against his nose.

He dreams of a Starship. The holographic bridge of his childhood opens up in a sparkling spray behind his eyes. The neglected ship model in his classroom comes alive in his head, dreams lathering it in moonshine paint, a diamond of the galaxy. Jim, in the chair. Spock -

Spock, in his science blues, his hand on the chair. Spock, his eyes in the galaxy translator. Spock and him, stood side by side as if another life.

Spock's -

Footsteps.

Jim startles awake.

It's just Spock with the starlight on his sand caked boots.

"You walked here?"

"You were not present at the Academy. I searched for you."

"How did you find me?"

Spock's silence is his only reply. Jim scooches over and pets the place beside him.

"Where is Yel?" Spock slides smoothly down beside him. "Sybok was requesting his presence."

"He was helping me," Jim explains. "Did you walk far?"

"Far enough. Where is Yel now?"

"With Sonak." Jim eyes Spock carefully."I don't know why."

"I see."

The implications ring loud and clear.

"Spock..." Jim pulls his knees in under his chin. Spock won't look at him. "Please keep it a secret."

Spock's pupils tremble in his irises.

"I cannot lie."

"But you can not say anything," Jim whispers. "I trust you. I know you won't say anything."

All babyish fat has fled his face. His body is becoming beautifully tapered, elegant. He doesn't suffer any adolescent awkwardness, not how Jim knows it, but Spock isn't a man or a boy. He's a Vulcan (with human eyes.)

"I won't say anything," he murmurs, and Jim lights up, laughs, pushes into his shoulder like they're at prom. 

"Thank you, Spock." He lies back on I-Chik. The snoring mass of her body and breath comforts him. Spock, after a hesitant moment, lies his head by the crook of Jim's elbow. 

"Jim," He asks; "Tell me again what we shall do when we leave here."

"You and me," Jim says with a smile. "We'll see the stars. Explore uncharted space, seek out new life, new places. Go where no man or Vulcan has gone before. Our best destiny."

"Yes." Spock entwines his fingers with Jim's, who doesn't pull away but stirs sweetly into sleep. "Our best destiny."

* * *

I-Chik snorts.

The sky warms to red, the stars disappearing in the wake of a new day. Jim pads his palm into the plush of I-Chik's stomach. Spock slumbers beside him, his mouth askew in the dip of Jim's neck. 

Jim absently runs his thumb across the back of Spock's neck, where the cut has grown long, beginning to curl tighter around his ears. The beckoning light travels to Spock's still, sullen face, the dent of his lashes and the part in his lips.

Spock's skin is dry, warm, scaled across his hips and thighs and under the dark fur on his chest and arms. When they were kids, Jim was certain they were the same, soft and baby-like with the same skin and hair, but as they grew older, Jim realised they were different.

_ We're alien to each other, _ he thinks. He is so different to Janice, or how he imagines Uhura or even T'Pring and the weight and heat of Spock prickles his gut, makes him shiver and breath shortly, for Spock is looking different under the light with all the beginnings of a strange, stalking beauty and Jim creeps away, leaving him with I-Chik, and disappearing into Sonak's kitchen. 

* * *

The candle wax has marred the floor, matted on Sonak's scatter rugs. Jim picks it off his nails, contemplating. The kitchen, the lounge, the box garden is empty.

A gasp of breath, almost a snore, and Jim sees the opposite door ajar and rising, his feet no din on the marbled floor, he puts his face against the crack.

The morning light sweeps across tangled blankets and bare limbs. Bones's arm is curled around the slick of Sonak's waist. Sonak faces Bones, his forefinger and thumb stroking down the stubble furring on Bones's cheeks, lingering on the meld points. Bones stirs, waking enough to chase Sonak's fingers with a kiss.

Jim steps back, careful to hold his breath.

A creak behind him and he swirls to see Spock at the patio door, I-Chik nudging her huge head behind him.

Jim holds his finger to his lips. 

Spock and he return to the garden, shadowed by a drooling (and hungry) I-Chik.

Jim retrieves her food from the outside shed as she succumbs to Spock's talented pets, and he drags a sack of god knows what to the massive stone boat she calls her bowl. He slits it open and struggles to upend it into her feeding trough. The weight suddenly lifts as Spock heaves the other side, the bulge of dried meat and vegetables an unspeakable funk between them, as I-Chik whines and circles and Jim pleads she doesn't honk her honing cry (she did once, in class, and splattered Sonak with spit. Jim hadn't laughed so hard in years.)

As she buries her head in the mass, Jim wipes his hand down his front and gifts Spock a small smile.

"I think," He mouths. "We should go for a walk or something."

"That would be agreeable," Spock replies, and it's the first thing they'd said to each other, and it is so easy and unawkward that Jim laughs, and beckons Spock through the gate.

I-Chik whines, her jowls smeared with food.

"No," Spock speaks with the authority of one who is used to sehlats. "You are sated. You will be able to go without us for an hour."

She paws the gate, miserable.

Jim clucks his tongue and fetches the lead.

"C'mon, it won't hurt." He loops it around her thunderous neck. She purrs, excited. "She'll be no tr - _ hey!" _

I-Chik does indeed go for a walk - and takes Jim with her.

Spock serenely closes the gate.

* * *

"There is a specific grace when it comes to walking your sehlat," Spock explains, I-Chik ambling beside him on her best behaviour. Jim nurses his bleeding shins. "It is the balance of discipline and reward."

"Wonderful," Jim hops behind. "So glad you decided to tell me that now."

"I wished to observe your conduct," Spock's bullshitting has now reached gold standard. Jim supposes he only has himself to blame. "As it was, I found your conduct..."

"Pitiful?"

"...lacking."

If Jim had anything on hand - in Iowa, it would have been a snowball or a rotten pear - he would have aimed it at Spock's head. Alas, he had nothing, so all he can do was fall into pace with his best friend and poke him between his ribs.

They reach the outskirts of the desert plain, where shade is offered by overhanging trees. 

I-Chik dives into the drifting leaves and kicks her stout legs in the air. Jim nestles beneath the hanging branches, his hands over his head.

Spock is crosslegged beside him.

They don't talk. Jim finds that nowadays they don't have to.

As the hours grow hotter, so does the quiet reality left behind in Sonak's bedroom.

"Spock?" He rolls onto his belly. "You won't say anything about Bones, will you?"

The shade weaves expressions in the changing shadows on Spock's saturnine cheeks, and Jim's body itches in the worst way. He swallows and looks away.

"It is no business of mine," Spock says, monotonous, and Jim looks back, wide-eyed.

"Thank you."

"Why do you offer thanks? I have done nothing."

"How can you say..." Jim chokes. "You are..."

Spock tilts his brow.

"Yes?"

Jim almost kisses him.

He doesn't. 

Instead, he laughs.

"You really don't like your brother, do you?"

"What Sybok does is no matter to me," He says stiffly. "However, I disregard his notions, which does not make me unique amongst my people."

"He's a bore. And all that smiling! Disgraceful."

"You are attempting sarcasm."

"You can't attempt what you're perfect at."

Jim scoffs and lies his head on Spock's thigh.

The clouds pass overhead, undisturbed.

* * *

Jim has never seen Bones so anxious, so happy, so terrified.

On the shuttle home, he playfully pokes Spock with all manner of embarrassing questions, churning up the first kind of quasi friendly banter Jim has witnessed between them. He and Jim laugh over the PaDD and then, at Spock's benign jealousy, and thank god the shuttle is empty of all judgemental Vulcan eyes and even Spock seems softer, less the hard image of his father, more the boy Jim adores (stop that, he begs himself; stop thinking like that.)

The house is empty of Sarek and Amanda, and thankfully for Bones, even Sybok (even as Jim sees the pale gloss of guilt in Bones's eyes as he looks up to the top windows.) Jim even chases Spock to the front door, calling for prune juice and the opportunity to play chess in the downstairs lounge. Spock vanishes upstairs to fetch the board and then Jim is grabbed, pulled tight into a breathless hug.

"James Tiberius Kirk," Bones whispers into his ear. "Meet Leonard Horatio McCoy."

Jim pulls back, speechless.

Bones grins, ruffling his hair, tears tracking his cheeks.

Jim gawks, then -

He hugs him back, so tight, clawing his shirt beneath his grip. 

"Did Sonak -"

Bones smiles and taps his temple. Spock arrives, the board tucked under his arm.

"C'mon, then," Leonard throws himself down on Sarek's impeccable armchair, his boots sat on the coffee table. Spock quirks an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "Let's see you beat him again, Jim."

* * *

"Checkmate."

Sonak scans the board.

"You have beaten me. Well done."

"I knew I would, this time."

"I must admit I am surprised. The logical choice would have been..."

"The rook." Jim nods. "I know."

Sonak raises an eyebrow.

"You never cease to prompt a subvert my expectations." Sonak folds the board. "The last few years have been interesting."

"The fights?"

"I believe you humans would call it "the element of surprise."

Jim laughs.

"You're speaking as if this is our last session."

"It is."

Jim stutters.

"What?"

"As it stands, this is our final session," Sonak says, robotically putting away the chess set. "I shall still act as your overseer until you are of age, but..."

"Sonak," Jim demands. "Stop."

To his surprise, Sonak actually does, and that is when Jim sees how pale he is under his eyes, how his hands fold and unfold. For prim, precise Sonak to fidget...

"What's happened?" He asks, as logically calm as he can muster. "Something is bothering you."

Sonak's gaze is suitably cold.

"I am not capable of that emotion."

"Then..." Jim pushes in front of him. "At least tell me."

"It appears..." Sonak pauses, just slightly, with a tightness in his jaw. "...that Leonard is not with you?"

Bones's real name - that sacred assortment of letters - punctures the quiet, a sharp realisation hidden in the hush of Sonak's question. 

"No," Jim shakes his head. "He is with Sybok, today."

Sybok, unable to decipher Bones's distance, had been subdued in the intervening days since Bones had arrived back from Sonak, and had resorted to imploring stares and fumbled half questions.

"I see." Sonak turns away. "As it is, Elder Kuvak is experiencing the early symptoms of his time. Without his aide, he is in need."

Jim blinks.

"What? His time?"

Sonak's tutoring guise has slid back like layering steel. 

"Ah. Yes." He sits back down. "Our final lesson, Ek-zer. Be seated."

Jim obeys. His mind swivels back through the years, to the conversation shared between Spock on the day of T'Pring's visit.

_ "That information is classified until I am of age." _

"Time?" Jim rubs his eyes. Old nausea works his way up from his stomach. "I take it has to do with sex or something."

"Affirmative." Sonak folds his hands together. "It is a deeply personal affliction, and not divulged to outworlders."

"I am an outworlder."

"Not anymore. You are a citizen of Vulcan, and an aide, and therefore, suspect to our traditions. And this particular phrase is..." He slides out a folder from the desk drawer. "...a delicate matter."

"You're giving me a sex-ed pamphlet?" Jim takes it. "Really?"

"It offers the facts in a candid manner." Sonak replies tightly; "And prevents me the less than desirable act of explaining it."

Jim reads. The leaflet is obviously devised for aides. Why an aide would need to know this, Jim isn't sure, even if the memory of peering through a crack in a cupboard rears an ugly head. 

He slaps the pamphlet down on the table between them.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Sonak sighs.

"It is paramount to your education..."

"Oh really?" Jim begins to feel an itch of panic. He rubs his temples, his cheeks, where the first sign of stubble is beginning to grow through. "But what I know is I am Spock's aide, and T'Pring is his wife to be, and she'll take care of all of that, alright? Or he'll die?"

Sonak silently gathers the pamphlet. 

"Wait," Jim pats his hand on the booklet. "Are you saying you have to attend Kuvak? As in, prevent him from..."

"I am not to attend him," Sonak utters. "I am to marry him."

Jim has a mental spit take.

"Marry?"

"He requires a bondmate. I am unbonded. It seemed an adequate choice."

Jim's jaw meets his chest.

"What? But he could be your..."

"We age differently."

"He's still old as balls!" Jim spits out. "That's disgusting. You don't want that, do you?"

"That is enough, Ek-zer," Sonak is a second too slow in correcting him. "What has been agreed has been agreed. It is logical for me to attend Kuvak. If you worry for what I get from it, I can assure you, Elder Kuvak is a man who has unmatched merit in our society. Our union improves my family's prospects. I will inherit his property and wealth, not just his name."

It's so perfectly rehearsed, each expression exacted perfectly. Jim looks at Sonak sadly.

"But is it what you want?" He taps the booklet. "The whole...Pon -"

"His time." Sonak corrects. "We do not discuss it, not even among ourselves, unless..."

"But..." Jim interrupts. "You discuss it with me."

Sonak slides the pamphlet across to him.

"I suggest you keep it."

"Why are you discussing it with me?"

"It is wise to be informed."

"Did you speak to Sarek?"

"Ek-zer," Sonak says shortly. "You are the aide to an heir of Surak. You must not lose sight of what a tremendous honour it is."

"Sonak!" The chair screeches as Jim stands. He is taller now, almost eye to eye with him. His heartbeat accelerates, dread dropping to the centre of his stomach. "Why are you telling me this?"

Sonak places his hand on his tricorder and curls up an eyebrow.

"You are intelligent, for a human," he claims. "So I trust you can come to your own conclusions?"

The words reach Jim's ear in a distant echo. He sits down, slowly.

_ I will not be here when we are both men. _

"I think I can," He folds the pamphlet into his pocket. Sonak can barely look at him. "If she doesn't..."

"Spock's dual heritage brings its own issues," Sonak replies, no longer scathing. "It makes certain outcomes hard to predict."

Jim doesn't even want to think about it, only that Sonak is watching him carefully, almost guilty. The dutiful tutor, not the friend, not Bones's -

_ Bones _.

Jim chuckles.

"Y'know, Leonard would kill you for this."

The name - that name - tightens every sinew in Sonak's knuckle.

He swallows.

"It is beyond my control," He chokes. "And Leonard's, at that."

"You know the name they gave him, right? You call him by his earth name." Jim scrutinises him. "You call him by his real name."

"As is..." Sonak gathers his things. Jim rises; it is past their hour. "...his pleasure."

"I heard you." Jim's voice is loud. He has power here, he realises. He always had the power, and that's the tongue in his head, and by that fact, the truth. Ma had once said the truth could shatter mountains. "He came to you. I brought him to you. And you said let me help, and he let you." Jim takes another breath so deep it could swallow his lungs. "He doesn't let Sybok do that, do you know that? Doesn't like him getting close." Jim watches the faintest tremble in Sonak's shoulders. The older man faces the door, clasping his satchel shut. "Hates him in his mind, but Sybok won't take no for an answer. Sybok forces...!"

"Enough!" Sonak rasps. He swivels on his feet, and Jim takes a decided step back, for his face is terrible, twisted. "Must you bait me, Ek-zer?"

Jim shakes his head.

"Listen," He pleads. "For the last six years, I've known you. We've sat together, countless times, and played chess, and debated, and you've taught me everything about your history and culture. And I've listened, and I've learned, and I reckon you've listened to me as well, and learnt as well. Being a teacher goes both ways, you know."

"I have been weak." Sonak tugs down his uniform. "I have been indulgent. My control has slipped. It is shameful."

"No!" Jim declares. Sonak jerks up, almost afraid of him. "What is shameful is knowing the person you care about is suffering and doing nothing. What is shameful is discrediting the logical and damaging result of what your people have done to my people, and what they have done to you!"

Jim takes a step forward. Sonak places a quivering hand on his tricorder.

"Sonak, they're forcing you into a bonding you obviously don't want. How could your family approve of that?"

Sonak exhales.

"Ek-zer," He answers, so quiet and tired. "Even if I wished for things to be different, I cannot change it."

"It only takes one man to change the future. Our history is evidence of that."

"Not ours."

Jim smiles.

"Surak, much?"

"Well," Sonak doesn't smile, but he lessens each muscle in his jaw. "Maybe one."

* * *

They ascend the lift in silence. The dying cool of the classroom fades like memory on Jim's skin. His reflection winks at him in the long stretch of the mirror. 

Sonak's hands hang by his side. No PaDD, no files, no busying of anything.

When the doors part, Bones is there with I-Chik, covered in the sunshine. Sonak passes by him, and just like that, empathic Bones follows. They fall into the shade of the Academy's pillars, hidden from the thinning crowds.

Jim sits on the opposite step, stroking I-Chik's slumbering head.

Jim wonders why he is so sure that Bones will feel fury first, not when he has grown so acclimatised to the man's gruff tenderness. But Bones is listening, tranquil, working his hands up the length of Sonak's arms. Sonak fall still, lowers his chin to his chest. Bones cups the back of his head, placing a kiss on the pale forehead, and Sonak folds into Bones, his lips parting with the word "Leonard" and Jim gets up, beckons I-Chik away.

On the shuttle home, Bones stares out the window, speechless. Jim sits close, so Bones knows he is there, and on his lap, he carries the old model of the Starship.

He had taken it without asking.

Sonak had not stopped him.

* * *

The day of the Wedding comes the following week. It is so soon Jim wonders about Kuvak's condition and tries to then not think about it, thank god, he's still haunted by the prospect of accidentally catching Kuvak in his skivvies. The fact he might have working junk under it all is just as terrifying.

Sonak, at least according to the pale remarks he can pull from silent, sullen Bones, is not part of an important family (and how much did Sonak tell Bones, and how much did Bones tell Sonak, a secret world they seemed to share in so short a time.) But Sarek's family are invited, and as far as Jim can see, the majority of the science division to match.

Sonak isn't important; Kuvak is, and why is happiness so short, so brutally taken in this world?

It's because they're human.

Through the small crowd of elders and dignities approaches the oldest Vulcan Jim has ever seen, so bent and wrinkled it is as if his bones have shrivelled inside his skin. He is flanked by his human aide, a fit middle-aged man with cropped hair and a strong face. Something in the aide's features pricks Jim's memory of a photo in a history book, but he looks again and shakes his head. No. Such a thing would not be possible.

As the Elder shuffles past, heads are bowed in respect. Even Sarek rests his chin on his chest.

"That is Ambassador Soval, Jim," Spock answers beneath his breath. "One of our revered elders. He is the longest living Vulcan in our century."

"Jesus Christ," Bones groans. "Did they pickle him or something?"

"I know that name," A neighbouring Elder gives Jim a stern look. "Soval. Wasn't he a member of the High Command like a hundred plus years ago?"

"Indeed," Spock affirms. "He was one of the most prominent figures in our reformation."

Bones exchanges a side look with Jim and dropping his face to a breath of a whisper;

"He's the reason we're here, the old bastard."

His aide unfolds a stool for the trembling Soval to sit. Soval takes his aide's hand. His other helper, a cold female Vulcan, coughs. Soval frowns in a way far too loose and confused for a healthy Vulcan, and just clings to the man tighter.

As the party rearranges, Jim slips past the double doors. 

* * *

Sonak, steeped in his ceremonial robes, is stood in the centre of the preparation room. Ornate ghosts of family and friends drown him, adjusting his sashes and jewellery and pulling out the bottom of his cloak like a bride. The heavy blushes of red and purple wash out Sonak's skin. He's so young, Jim thinks. It's not fair.

"What are you doing here?" An elderly woman addresses him as he steps into the room, unafraid. "Should you not be attending your aide, human?"

Jim stares past her, toward Sonak, whose shoulders lift at the sight of him.

"Hm." She slides her hands inside her robes. She has Sonak's narrow, placid features. "You are Ek-zer."

"May I see him?"

"He is about to be bonded. This is most unorthodox."

"Ko-mekh." Sonak's voice smoothes out the silence. "I need some time to prepare for the ceremony ahead. If you would excuse yourselves."

His mother gestures for the accompanying party to disperse. They float past Jim, the dusty gold of their robes incomparable to his bright, sunshine yellow. Jim's dress robes are the finest pair he owns, specially commissioned for the occasion. The fact Jim had personally requested to attend the wedding seemed to satisfy Sarek. 

_ "It is gratifying you are taking a keen interest in our traditions, Ek-zer. Observe well, for soon they shall be yours." _

Jim does not follow the Vulcans.

"Ek-zer." Sonak places his hands inside the long dip of his robes, so like his mother. "I was not expecting you."

"I had to come," Jim tries to smile. "I wanted to be there for you."

Sonak inhales sharply.

"That is not necessary."

"Well, I say it is."

Jim observes the surrounding room. Sarek's house is grander, larger. Sonak's family home is modest in comparison, less spartan, more plush and textured. For what he knows of Vulcan marriages, his mother would be pleased with Kuvak as a "smart match."

Softer flowers weave outside the open windows, the only hint of Sonak in the entire room.

"Did you plant those?" He asks, in way of conversation. Sonak was usually private about his own interests, but Jim had detected the scent of flowers on Sonak's hands and robes, a sweet perfume he began to associate with the classroom. "They're very pretty. I used to grow sunflowers back home, you know." 

"Ek-zer..."

"I know," Jim observes his reflection in the windowpane. He pushes back his rogue curl, and sees Sonak's face, pale, watching him. Gold and ivory, the two of them. "You don't want to do this, do you?"

Sonak places his hood up.

"What I want is irrelevant."

"Bones thinks it's mad."

"Your doctor is unusually quick with his opinions."

"But he's not wrong..."

"It is our tradition." Sonak would monotonously snap that back at him, once upon a time. Now his voice is fined out with fatigue, with gentleness. "I taught it to you very thoroughly. Do you not recall?"

"I recall every single lesson, Sonak." Jim approaches him, hands behind his back in the classic Vulcan way. "I enjoyed them. Mostly."

"Your enjoyment was not paramount."

"But you made it so, sometimes."

Sonak scans him with his sad copper eyes.

"Sometimes, Ek-zer," He says quietly. "I believe that we may have done you a great injustice."

Jim's smile dimples so far it hurts.

"Don't say stuff like that," He whispers. "Not today."

"I apologise." 

Jim tucks the note into Sonak's belt.

"Don't do that, either."

"Commander," A young Vulcan cadet waits at the door. Jim drops his hands and retreats back to the window, plucking a fallen flower from the sill. "It is time."

Sonak nods. All warmth and hesitation flee his face, and he advances toward the exit. 

Jim waits until the cadet is gone through the door, and taking advantage of his new height, he catches Sonak's arm. The contact is fleeting, barely a touch of lips, but the heat of his breath flames the deathly chill of Sonak's skin as he kisses his cheek.

Sated, Jim pulls out the bottom of Sonak's robe, the last of his attendance, and offers Sonak the Ta'al, even if he can't say the classic words, for the both of them know the meaning is void.

* * *

Elder Skos awaits for the grooms, his forefingers steepled beneath his wrinkled chin. Soval is sat near Sarek, so visibly ancient that he makes Kuvak look young in comparison. 

Kuvak, no sign of his so-called fever, stands prompt beside the Elder. His black robes push the vulgar white of his crinkled throat. Jim thinks of Sonak, of Kuvak, of the wedding night, and gags.

Bones squeezes Jim's shoulder.

A discreet bustle announces Sonak. Dignified, he parts the crowd, shadowed by his mother. The weight of his robes and the lightness of his step reminds Jim of a crane he saw when he was young, treading carefully over the in the high grass in search of food. Besotted, he'd watch it fly away, pearlescent wings on the horizon.

Chyss takes his place beside Kopok, their fingers met in a kiss.

Bones is still as Sonak passes, his gaze lingering on the narrow square of Sonak's back.

Sonak and Kuvak kneel, their forefingers met in a kiss.

"Ra etek nam-tor pa' tor toglantausu sarlah ne' s' wuh wak t' wuh palikaya." Skos stands above the prone figures, the bass of his voice a proud echo in the chambers. "Nash tor wuh Vuhlkansu khaf-spol, nash tor wuh Vuhlkansu katra. Nash nam-tor etwel yut."

Jim translates it in his head. He has heard these words before, have read them so many a time.

_ What ye are about to witness comes down from the time of the beginning. _

Spock, fixated on the wedding pair, does not notice the linger of Jim's stare.

_ This is the Vulcan heart. _

Spock's fingers twitch. Jim, hot, adjusts himself. The stolen flower crinkles inside his palm.

Their knuckles brush.

_ This is the Vulcan soul. _

Bones, his eyes on Sonak and nothing else, his silence wearing heavy on Jim's shoulders.

_ This is our way. _

* * *

** _Fire._ **

** _Jim isn't sure where it comes from, or what it is doing, only that the world is engulfed in white and there is a high, screaming sound and he squeezes his eyes tight as he can and he hears -_ **

** _The fire comes first; the boom comes later._ **

** _There is red and green blood on his hands. -_ **

Jim wakes, sweat instead of blood on his hands.

Spock watches from the bed, the blue light of the PaDD throwing him into relief. 

"Who is Nyota?" He asks. "You have said their name exactly 16 times in the last fortnight as you sleep."

"Really?" Jim gripes. "I'm sure I've said other names, too."

"The name is female."

"No shit."

"Reevaluate your tone."

Jim's body aches. It's as if all the ligaments of his humour have been failing over the last few months. He's hot and tired and tough, his body prickling beneath the heat, and any brush of skin scalds his temper. He thinks inanely of Sam, of the summers when he began to shut himself away, long silences in humid bedrooms and lingering glances at the Beekeeper's daughter in her ripped off shorts.

"Why do you care?" Jim turns over. Spock is too close, hunched over his mat. The pressure of his knees against his calves feels funny, the strange interplay between pleasant and not. Jim decides he doesn't like it and curls himself. "She's a girl I know."

"Used to know," Spock corrects. "You will not see her again. You must accept this finality."

Jim tries to be angry. Try being the keen word. But it's a Vulcan summer, and he thinks it's going to kill him, and in his mind Nyota stretches out like dough, developing past the wrinkles of her smiles and the star pupil black of her eyes. She becomes longer, taller, _curvier _and Jim bites his lower lip, tossing back into his pillow.

"Not in the mood, Spock."

"Mood for what, Ek -"

"Jim." He cracks. "Jim Kirk, and you know it, mister. Call me anything else right now and I'll paint my knuckles green."

It's a weak threat. Spock senses it too, for he lies down beside him, careful to brush their legs together. Jim's stomach jolts at the touch, but he dare not shift away, to give Spock the satisfaction.

Or hope; a tiny whisper in his head.

"Who was she?"

"She was..." Jim hesitates. Should he tell Spock? His memories are important to him. They're his alone. "...my friend."

Spock steeples his forefingers to his lips. His nose is prouder, his jaw becoming long and set. Jim's gaze wanders over him, curious. He bears little resemblance to his father. Maybe that is why he can tolerate him so much better.

"Elaborate."

"She was on the ship when I was taken," Jim explains. He smiles with the memory. "She knew what it was all about. She could sing, and speak Swahili and English and even Vulcan so easily..."

"I believe I knew of this human," Spock interrupts. There's a bare clip to his tone, a subtextual _ shut up. _Jim narrows his eyes. "She was to be T'Pring's dvinsu. You aided with her escape. I recall T'Pring's mother was inconvenienced by your actions."

"They weren't my actions," He can't help but add with a hint of pride; "I did help, though."

Spock raises an eyebrow. The older he gets, the more pronounced that particular habit becomes.

"So you admit it."

Jim gives him a long look.

"Are you jealous?"

"Negative. I am not..."

"...capable of that emotion. Yeah, yeah." Jim tucks his head into his forearm. "I'm really tired, Spock. I've got to sleep on this hard mat in the sweltering heat. Let me be, alright?"

"Would you like the bed?"

"What?"

"You are uncomfortable." Spock tilts his head to the side. "The heat has been excessive even for my people. Would you find greater relief if you were elevated?"

Jim pushes himself up on his elbows. 

"You serious?" He weakens, just a little. His body is burning and he doesn't know why. Okay, he does, but the last thing he needs right now is hormonal upheaval to add to the stress, the heat. "Why?"

Spock claps his hands. The lights go off.

"It is logical to keep you in reasonable health," He says, quietly. Jim wonders about the dramatics, but only to a certain point, as he's so heavy and tired he could be alternating into a silicon-based lifeform - and god, is he starting to sound like Spock.

He waits.

So does Spock.

Warily, he climbs off his mat, onto the hardboard Spock calls a bed. A firm mattress is a polite way of saying it, but it's _ up _ and cooling and Jim sighs, rolls into himself.

And into Spock, who's not moved. 

It isn't panic Jim feels at the contact. This is Spock, after all. The boy shifts, finally, tasting the uncertainty in the air. Maybe Vulcans don't get weird about stuff like this.

"Spock, did you ever have a selhat?"

Silence.

The sheets rustle as Spock sits up.

"Affirmative."

"Can you just say yes, occasionally? Affirmative sounds so cold."

"It is a word, Jim. It does not have a temperature."

"Spock..."

"He was called I-Chaya." Spock isn't looking at him. "He died when I was seven. He followed me, saved my life, and died from the poison of a Le-Matya."

"Like you did. Only I didn't let you."

A greater silence.

They kiss.

It's a terrible idea - he's not kissed anyone, not really, not since the phantom warmth of Uhura's cheek and chin when he was nine, or Janice's warm, wet attempt - but he kisses Spock, mouth pushed against the thin, tight traps of Spock's lips, and -

He pulls back, babbling.

Spock's lashes flutter open. He runs his thumb against his lips.

"I..."

"You may proceed."

"What?"

"As I said," A flush on his nose, on his ears. "You may proceed. I have predicted this outcome."

Jim gabbles.

"Proceed? What? I..."

Spock cocks his head, and Jim wonders if witnessing his father's Pon Farr has given him ambition.

"Come," He says, so quiet, and cups Jim's face in his palms, and brings him close. "Let me kiss you as my mother kisses my father when he indulges her. Let me."

Jim gasps at the cool of Spock's hands against the heartbeat in his own body, heat curling through his stomach and thighs and Spock kisses him, measured, exact, and Jim melts, dropping his head on Spock's chest as they pull apart. 

Spock holds him tight, rolling him over in his arms, as Jim slumps, useless, suddenly very tired.

"Spock..."

"Jim." Spock kisses his head. "Let me."

* * *

Their bodies slot into each other with disturbing ease; the print of Spock's palm against Jim's belly, the hook of his leg around Jim's knee.

Jim waits; uncomfortable, awake.

He could sleep like this, close his eyes and slip away and get used to it, for now, he is beginning to understand why he was chosen in the first place, as to why Amanda kissed his cheek and Sarek would patronisingly praise his protectiveness.

The childhood they have stolen is forged with that knowledge, spiked through with that intent.

Like he couldn't kiss Janice, Jim cannot go to sleep.

Spock's nose brushes his cheek and all Jim wants, for one mad moment, _is_ to go to sleep. It isn't going to get better. If he resists, he'll make it worse, right? Anywhere where Spock is couldn't be a condemned life. They can even be happy, in a way, no one knows or feels like Spock, no one can lie beside him like this, even with the terrifying divide between them.

Jim curls his hand around Spock's, and his chest aches with the brush of Spock's cheek against his chin. 

He's crying.

It's weak and pathetic but he's crying, wetting the pillow with the push of his head against the sheets, and he knows it'll wake Spock eventually, it'll have to, he's a damn touch telepath.

Jim slips free. 

He wanders downstairs into the dark. No moon on Vulcan, just a net of stars patterned through the windows. He thinks of Sonak, of Bones, and the dire sleepless silence in the room above.

"Ek-zer."

Amanda steps out of the darkness, the starlight on her hair, on her bare shoulders. 

Jim exhales.

"Amanda."

"You've been crying."

"No." Jim turns back to his stars. "My eyes are tired."

"Jim." She places her glass of water on the table. "Speak to me."

She sounds so much like a mother. There, wearing her husband's nightgown, barefooted with her hair down her back, eyes grey-blue when the light hits, but they wear Spock's tenderness.

"I'm frightened." He whispers. He stares down at his hands. _ Run, baby. _"I'm getting older, Amanda. I'm worried that I might..."

He trails off.

"Want this?" Her hand is light pressure on his arm. "That you may be here, for the rest of your life? That you might crave this, after all that fighting, all that exhaustive strive for freedom?"

Jim looks at her.

She smiles.

"And here you think," she continues; "That I do not know what it is like? That I, alone, have gone through this entire life, this marriage, my motherhood, without a question? That I haven't tasted your doubt?"

"And..." Jim faces her. He towers over her now. He recalls a time when he could bury his head in her stomach, and think how frail she is. "...what conclusion have you come to?"

She cups his face. In her hands is the same delicacy as Spock's, in the splay of fingers and the graceful dart of the thumb.

"That all this," She looks him dead in the eye. "...I do not regret."

Jim steps back. Her arms hang open, empty.

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't trade this," she utters sweetly. "My husband. My son. I am cherished here. I am safe. This way of life is difficult, Jim, but it is ultimately superior. You will see in time."

"Your husband loves you as a captive. Would he love you as a free woman?"

Her eyes crinkle with her smile.

"He loves me," she says. "It is enough."

Jim shakes his head, tearing away to the window.

"It isn't," His voice is hard. "Not for me. Not for what's been done to my father."

"I don't believe you."

"That's your prerogative."

"I knew your mother, Jim."

The world changes in a single sentence. Jim's hand slips from the glass and falls useless to his side.

"What?"

"Winnie." She watches him closely. "We went to the same school together on an exchange program. We kept in touch. Wrote every summer."

Jim's jaw has stopped working.

"As it is," she says. "I happened to have her address. She always said she wanted to live in her father's old farmhouse. That's how I knew where to find her. To find you."

The stars are very far away.

"It was Elder Skos who suggested the mind-meld. I wouldn't speak, you see. Misguided loyalty. My husband consented to it. At the time, I did not. For such behaviour, I am ashamed."

"Of what?" Jim's voice cracks. He feels his chest lift off his ribcage and back again. "Of being forced or refusing to be forced?"

Her smile vanishes. A cloaked steel chips away at her softness. She touches his face, strong, and does not let him pull away.

"I do not regret it," she says. "For what they were attempting was foolish, and more importantly, for what you are and what you mean, and will mean, to my son, whom I love more than myself."

"More than your freedom."

"When he is happy, I am free."

"I am not a tool for his happiness."

"Of course you're not," She strokes his cheeks with Spock's thumbs, watches with a warped wink of Spock's eyes. "You are a part of our family. You are his equal in mind and body. In time, you will be to him as I am to Sarek, and there shall be no greater union for Spock, or for you." Her eyes twinkle. "I know you love him."

Jim gently takes her hands, prises them away from his body. He swallows.

"You're mad."

"Maybe," she affirms. "To a human, yes. To a Vulcan, logical. Know this, Ek-zer. I will do everything in my power to keep you here, with us, with Spock." She kisses his cheek. "It is for the best. All will be right in the end."

She drifts from the room like a dream. Jim stands in the starlight, unable to breathe, to think.

A murmur of voices creep from the hallway. Bones's shadow lurks behind the shade of the door, mooning eyes bloodshot blue.

In his hands is Jim's battered PaDD. Jim had leant it to him in the months between, for means to entertain himself whilst Sybok mediated, and later, for Sonak.

On the screen is a single picture. An e-mail from Chyss. No context, no note, no subject.

A picture of the human communication system.

The big, red bulbs blink green.

They have made contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, things get real.


End file.
